Frank Lauria

Baron Orgaz

(A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

[Doctor Orient - 4]

Copyright (c) 1974 by Frank Lauria

For Magi who shares her dreams with me...

...Somewhere in the sands of the desert

A shape with lion body and the head of a

A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs...

-- W.B.Yeats

'The Second Coming'

Chapter 1

The bikers handled their machines like a crack drill team.

All three were identically outfitted in leather jumpsuits, and the stark black uniforms, emphasized their symmetry as they improvised swift patterns through the clumsy Saturday-night traffic. At midtown they cut away from a herd of cars milling around the exits and leaned into a series of screaming curves with precisely timed bursts of reflex and power.

When they hit an open stretch, they veered into a crisp V formation and sat upright on their black BMW motorcycles, as if reviewing the looming assembly of light-studded ocean liners docked along the West Side Drive.

The point machine accelerated as they neared the Eighteenth Street exit, allowing the two trailing bikes to fall into line just before they howled down the ramp to the street.

A staccato chorus of booming echoes marked the trio's progress along the deserted waterfront. They gunned their throttles as they sped through the vacant streets below the elevated highway, ignoring one-way signs and traffic lights.

The metallic thundering stopped abruptly at Washington Street. The bikers cut their motors and coasted silently through the shadows until they came to a wide space between two parked freight vans. Without word or signal all three of them halted, backed their motorcycles into a perfect rank, and dismounted.

One of the bikers removed his helmet and started walking slowly across the street. The other two followed a few paces behind, falling into the same V formation they'd held while riding. Both of them still wore their crash helmets, and the shiny black globes with rounded face masks gave them a menacing, alien appearance, as if they were hunters from a distant world, stalking the still streets for a trophy of the planet.

The trio stopped when they reached a darkened building near the end of the block that was nestled between two larger warehouses. A storefront bar and grill occupied the ground floor. Its dingy windows were boarded over, but dim slivers of light leaking through the cracks hinted that it was open.

A flash of noise pierced the silence when the lead biker pushed open the door. As he entered, the two figures behind him dropped back and stood in the shadow of the warehouse. They waited there in the darkness as the door closed and the quiet dropped over the street like a blanket of invisible snow.

Arnold was bored.

He surveyed the crowd of studs in the room with arch indifference and wondered if he could call a taxi.

Preening slightly, he examined his reflection in the mirror over the bar. He was wearing something new tonight -- a black leather tunic with a silver-studded collar. He'd had it made up especially. He might have saved himself the trouble.

His eyes roved contemptuously over the posturing males in their clubby S/M outfits. With the exception of the few dressed like cowboys, the rest were wearing the stock black-leather-motorcycle-jacket/Brando-cap/engineer-boot uniform. There wasn't one man in the place with any real imagination or flair.

He winced inwardly as he remembered how excited he'd been when he first discovered the Panther's Lair. Everything about the place had seemed so mysterious and authentic -- the waterfront location, the boarded-up exterior, the thick chains hanging over the bar, the beautifully sinister young men dressed in leather and boots. It had both fascinated and frightened him. For years he'd entertained wild sexual fantasies of being whipped, raped, and dominated by brutish butch types wearing black leather; but when he finally found a place that promised to make his fantasy a reality, he became as nervous as a new bride.

Much to his disappointment, all his fears had proven to be groundless. The marriage was never consummated.

Every so-called sadist he'd encountered at the Panther's Lair had been more obsessed with acting out a role than inflicting real pain. They were just fabulous when it came to their little psychodramas. They loved to play commandants of prison camps, or policemen, or stern schoolmasters. But they had no concept of pain beyond the token spanking or whipping. One strutting S had actually become faint when he accidentally drew blood during a fumbling torture scene.

The sinister young men who looked so butch in their motorcycle jackets had all turned out to be nothing more than ordinary nelly queens in weekend drag. And the Panther's Lair was just another gay bar, despite the heavy atmosphere the management tried to maintain.

Arnold sighed and reached for a mentholated cigarette. He'd never realized his fantasies, and he doubted if he ever would. Not tonight, anyway. It was Saturday, and every ribbon clerk in the city had crawled out of his closet. The noise, smoke, and blaring music were giving him a headache. The only thing preventing him from going home to bed and the Late Show was the fact that it would be hell finding a cab in the waterfront neighborhood. Not only was it phony atmosphere, it was downright inconvenient. He swore and struck a match.

It never reached his cigarette.

Arnold's eyes had automatically wandered to the door as it opened, and when they focused on the man who entered, every muscle in his body froze.

The man's skin was very fair, almost as white as the wide area framing his pale blue eyes. His hair too was white, and cropped close to his high, dome-shaped skull.

A tightly cut leather jumpsuit covered his body, and his hands were encased in black gloves, accentuating the stark beauty of his face. Each of his features was magnificently defined, as if carved by a Renaissance master. But it was the animal energy in those eyes that held Arnold's breath. They flashed through the smoke like luminous knives and embedded themselves in his brain.

A sudden flare of pain spurred his reflexes.

Arnold dropped the burning match he'd been holding in midair and dunked his thumb into his drink. Instinctively he looked up and rechecked his own image in the mirror. Attractive enough, he decided. He was glad now that he'd worn the new tunic. True, there was a trace of puffiness around his chin that came from too many expensive lunches and not enough exercise. His skin was flushed, however, and his eyes were bright with excitement, giving his face a youthful, almost boyish glow. He struck another match and inhaled deeply on his cigarette, savoring the lingering hurt on his finger and the strange sense of anticipation generated by the man in the doorway. His presence had already seared away Arnold's boredom and charged him with a sensation that was halfway between ardor and fear. He could feel the intensity of the man's eyes smoldering in his memory, but he couldn't summon up the courage to turn his head and confront them again. He started to reach for his drink, then hesitated.

The man was standing just behind his stool, watching him intently in the mirror.

In the midst of his panic Arnold was able to grasp two unrelated facts; one was that the room had suddenly become stiflingly hot, and the other was that the man was waiting for him to speak.

On impulse he swiveled around, arching his back seductively, as he'd once seen Jean Harlow do in a movie, and smiled brightly.

Arnold's smile withered under the cold scorn in the man's eyes. Up close, he could see that the pupils were a light, almost transparent shade of blue, flecked with metallic fragments that gave them a silvery tint. Arnold felt a chill crawl up the back of his neck as he realized there was no reflection in those pupils. They were like disks of blue ice.

"Would you... like a drink?"

"No thanks." The man smiled slightly, making him seem very young. Arnold floundered for something clever to say, still unable to wrench his gaze from the man's face.

"Stuffy, isn't it?" the man remarked, as if sensing his discomfort. Arnold managed a weak grin.

"Awful. I hate Saturday nights."

The fact that he was able to speak intelligibly encouraged him to try something more direct.

"Haven't seen you here before. I'm Arnold. What's your name?"

The man ignored the question.

"You've been waiting a long time, haven't you?" he asked softly. Arnold's chin dropped. "You mean tonight?"

"I mean every night. You've been waiting a long time for the right person. Someone who knows exactly what you need." His bloodless lips curled up slightly. "Isn't that true?"

"Yes." Arnold blinked and took a deep breath.

"Uh... what's your name?" he repeated, trying to gain some time to recover his composure.

The man leaned over until his mouth was close to his ear. "I'm called Christian."

The name created a vacuum inside Arnold's skull that sucked his thoughts away from their moorings and sent them whirling in confusion.

"Why don't you take a little ride in the fresh air?" Christian was saying. "With me."

It wasn't a question.

"I, uh, don't know... I mean, I... was waiting for someone." To his annoyance, Arnold heard his voice rising, like the squeal of a coy queen.

"Uh... do you have a car here?" he added quickly, making an effort to control his agitation.

"Motorcycle." Christian's voice was still soft, but edged with impatience. "Perhaps it's too primitive for you."

"Oh, no. It's not that at all, I love motorcycles." Arnold wondered why he felt so distressed. He'd been approached by beautiful men before. Of course, Christian was something special.

Even beyond his looks, his arrogant, assured manner promised that he could satisfy that long-unfulfilled craving for ecstatic cruelty.

"You see, I'm meeting this, uh, friend," he repeated lamely. Christian shook his head.

"I can't wait."

Arnold's confusion suddenly vanished. He looked across the room at the crowd of costumed men acting out their limp perversions while they glanced longingly at Christian, and he made up his mind. He'd be a fool to play the shrinking violet now. He wouldn't let a schoolgirl qualm ruin his first opportunity for real sex. He picked up his cigarettes from the bar, checked himself in the mirror once more, then stood up.

"All right, I'm ready," he announced.

"Where are we going?"

"Uptown." Christian watched his face carefully. "But understand one thing. If you decide to take a ride with me, there's no getting off until I say it's over."

Arnold swallowed, more with anticipation than from apprehension. "I understand."

A vivid flurry of disconnected impressions fed his growing excitement as he followed Christian through the crush of customers -- the pinched envy on the faces of the posing studs, the surge of warmth when the music pounded higher, the cool, crisp quiet of the street outside. The fresh air made him giddy, and he started to giggle.

Christian stopped and looked at him. His face was impassive, but the fury in his eyes crackled through the darkness. Their icy intensity chilled the laughter in Arnold's throat, and he stood very still, not daring to move.

"From now on," Christian said calmly, "you will not speak or act unless ordered to do so. Your only function is total obedience."

He turned and walked away.

Arnold felt a delicious thrill shiver through his spine as he hurried across the street after his new master.

He was startled when the two helmeted figures appeared out of the shadows, but he didn't react. He saw at once that they were also under Christian's domination by the way they waited motionlessly until he was seated before mounting their own machines.

Arnold accepted their presence without question or regret. He'd surrendered every responsibility for his existence to Christian, and there was nothing left except the blissful security of his enslavement.

When he beckoned Arnold got on the bike. He pressed his face against Christian's back and closed his eyes as the metal beast between his legs shuddered to life, shattering the darkness with its triumphant cry.

Its roar exploded into a windswept howl that filled Arnold's dreams for a long time before fading away, leaving him suspended in a soundless void.

He lifted his head.

They were on a deserted street on the far West Side, somewhere near midtown. The other two men had already dismounted and were coming toward them. Like mute robots, they waited until he got off and then escorted him to the sidewalk. Except for a natural twinge of jealousy, Arnold was unconcerned with their presence. His entire attention was concentrated on Christian.

He watched in rapt silence, reveling in every graceful movement Christian made as he wheeled the bike into place. Even the massive machine responded instantly to his touch. Though his features were obscured by the darkness, his slightest gesture was a figure in an erotic ballet.

Arnold was completely in the thrall of that dance as he followed Christian to a loft building. Once inside the dimly lit hallway, his heart began to pound frantic counterpoint to the deliberate rhythm of Christian's footsteps on the stairs above. A sudden chorus of sexual fantasies drowned out everything except his impatience for his initiation of pain to begin.

He was perspiring heavily when he reached the third landing, and his mouth was dry. The door was open, but he waited until the two men behind him reached the top of the stairs. They ushered him into a long, wide room. Except for the fact that the walls and ceilings were covered with white soundproofing board, there was nothing remarkable about the place. A magazine modern kitchen had been installed at the rear of the room. A few plants, some small tables, and several low chairs were scattered through the rest of the large space. A thick black rug extended from the kitchen tiles to a white partition that cut off part of the loft. The only decoration on the walls was a large black X painted on a narrow door in the partition.

Christian was standing in the center of the room removing his gloves. The other two went across the room to join him. When they removed their helmets, Arnold saw that they were very young. Both of them had the same freckle-faced, rawboned good looks of the classic American high-school hero. The looks he usually associated with apple-pie heterosexuality.

Arnold watched them, knowing instinctively that he had to conduct himself very carefully. He didn't want to make some amateur blunder and ruin the performance.

Christian's eyes interrupted his preoccupations.

Their pale blue incandescence seared away Arnold's trivial thoughts like jets from an acetylene torch, and set fire to his senses.

"Take off your clothing and put it in there." Christian spoke casually, pointing to a cardboard carton on the floor.

Arnold unlaced his tunic, slipped it over his head, and placed it in the box. His nerves tingled as he finished undressing, and when he finally stood naked before Christian, his skin crawled with pleasure.

To his disappointment, Christian turned his back and said something to the two men.

Their innocent, homespun faces were blank as they pulled off their boots and socks and then removed their leather jumpsuits. They folded the suits carefully and placed them in a pile next to their high black boots, military fashion. Then, clad only in black trunks, they came over to Arnold and motioned him across the room. They escorted him to the door marked with the black X. One of them pulled it open, and he stepped inside.

The windows, walls, and ceilings were covered with the same soundproof partitioning used in the outside room. The only piece of furniture was a very large marble-topped table in the center of the room. The table was lined up directly in front of a large black box standing against the far wall. The place was lit by a single lamp in the ceiling.

Arnold's bare feet were uncomfortably cold against the white tiles that covered the floor. One of the men waved him over to the table. He sat gingerly on the marble and waited.

Without warning or emotion, the two men pushed him face-down on the table and spun him around roughly so that his feet were pointing toward the door and his head was facing the black box.

Holding him firmly in place, they reached down beneath the table and produced a set of steel manacles that were attached to lengths of chain.

The only sound in the small room was the heavy scrape of metal as the two boys chained Arnold's wrists and ankles to the legs of the table. Then the noise stopped, and he heard the door close behind him.

Ever since he'd left the Panther's Lair with Christian, Arnold's senses had been humming with anticipation. But now a new sensation was throbbing in his belly, a pulse that began as the last manacle was locked into place. It rose in tempo until his entire body shivered with the voluptuous knowledge of total helplessness. He closed his eyes and gratefully pressed his cheek against the cold stone.

In a short time the two young men came back carrying some objects. One of them knelt down on the floor in front of the black box and began to draw a careful circle on the white tile, using a length of cord and a black felt-tipped marker.

Arnold watched them through half-closed eyes, enjoying the display of their supple young bodies as they prepared. The boy on his right left the room when the circle was finished. The one in front of the table picked up a metal ruler at his side and measured off a line within the circle.

As he did this, the other boy returned, carrying a large metal urn filled with coals. His muscles rippled and tensed under his skin as he placed the heavy urn a short distance away from the table, to the right of the circle. He bent down, twisted something at the base of the urn, and struck a match. Tiny jets of blue flame flowered up immediately between the coals, and Arnold realized that there was a gas burner beneath the bowl.

The boy in front of the table stood up and went to help adjust the placement of the urn. When it was correctly positioned, they picked up their tools and left the room.

Arnold looked down at the floor in front of him.

There was a perfect triangle inscribed within the circle. The thick black lines of the symbol were absolutely precise, as if done by a professional draftsman.

He was wondering about the significance of the symbol and the urn when one of the young men returned.

The boy went to the urn and thrust a long metal bar into the coals.

For a moment Arnold was confused. Then understanding flooded his brain with wild excitement. The boy was heating a branding iron. They were going to brand him. He began to tremble.

The other boy came in, holding three silver goblets, which he set down very carefully on each point of the triangle. When this was done, they both left.

The manacles were beginning to chafe Arnold's skin, and the discomfort amplified the excitement booming through his chest. He turned his head, and a low moan escaped his lips when he saw the glowing red coals in the urn. He rocked from side to side as he thought of what Christian was about to do to him. In the midst of his rapture he wondered if his lover was going to brand him with his initials or with the mysterious triangle symbol.

He was still wondering when the overhead light went out. Arnold heard the door open behind him. For long seconds there was no sound in the darkened room but the sputtering of the flames in the urn. Then he heard the deliberate tread of boots on the tiles.

As Christian walked slowly around the table, Arnold saw that he was cradling a black velvet bag against his chest, with both arms.

Taking care to avoid the triangle symbol on the floor, Christian walked up to the black box against the wall, and then very carefully placed the velvet bag on top of it.

The other two young men, now completely naked, came into the right corner of Arnold's vision and stood behind the blazing urn, but his attention never wavered from Christian.

He gorged himself on the dynamic contours of Christian's back, the lithe outline of his leather jumpsuit, the reflections of flames flickering across his polished jackboots. Every thought, emotion, and nerve in Arnold's body was filled with the expectation of his master's whim.

When Christian finally backed away from the wall, Arnold searched his face vainly for a sign of recognition. Christian's pale blue eyes were fixed on the place he'd left.

The hard edge of his features was softened by a beatific expression of reverence.

When Arnold glanced up at the source of Christian's admiration, a sharp shock of awe shot through his belly, and he began to shiver.

A crystal glass skull rested on the black box.

Every detail of human bone structure was visible in perfect proportion. Tiny galaxies of light expanded and contracted deep inside the emptiness of its eye sockets, and its smooth transparent dome shimmered with a rainbow vibrance that was more radiant than anything Arnold had ever seen.

"Prepare him."

The sound of Christian's voice seemed to come from a distant sun in the center of the skull.

Electric twitches of anticipation rippled across Arnold's outstretched body when he saw the wire whips flashing in the hands of the two naked boys. The first blow exploded against his shoulders.

His torso twisted up from the marble, and the manacles bit into his wrists as the second lash ripped his thighs like a hot claw.

He shrieked as another whistling slash of hurt seared his brain, fusing his mind and flesh into a writhing, sweating mass of agony. Relentless jolts of pain screamed through his nerves, and he begged them to stop. But his words cracked in his throat, emerging as broken animal squeals.

Arnold rolled his eyes, trying frantically to signal Christian. Then he saw Christian's face in the wavering light of the flaming urn, and his shrill pleas disintegrated into bubbling sobs of hysteria.

There was no compassion in the cold set of Christian's features. His eyes were flat and metallic against his white skin, and his lips were compressed with loathing. His shoulders began to shake when he caught sight of Arnold's imploring eyes, and his mouth parted slightly.

A high, singing laugh hummed through the shadows like a whining snake. Its sound intensified as it coiled around Arnold's senses and crawled into his tortured brain.

Suddenly Arnold's agony subsided.

His body began to shudder with slow convulsions of pleasure. His pleas became urgent grunts of encouragement as each new lash released a soothing lubricant that spread across his torment like perfumed oil. The laughter intensified in pitch until it was a ringing chord that paced his swelling excitement.

He felt himself getting an erection and lifted his body to free his bursting penis as a volcano of delight erupted at the base of his brain and oozed down his groin like glowing lava. He looked up wildly and saw Christian approaching the table with the poker in his hands.

Arnold squeezed his eyes shut, but when the burning metal tip sizzled into his buttock, a white-hot crescendo of ecstasy sent his awareness soaring to meet the chiming laughter winging above his frenzied groans. Overwhelming tremors of release racked his body, forcing his eyes open.

The crystal skull loomed in front of him, no longer transparent but opaque and glowing blood-red like some grotesquely grinning ruby.

Its mouth was wide open and emitting the cacophony of laughter vibrating through everything in the room.

It was the last thing Arnold ever saw.

Chapter 2

For the first time in his life Orient felt like deliberately hitting a woman.

Years of practicing deep spiritual control prevailed, however, and he went into a basic breathing pattern instead, one intended to cleanse the body of tension and lift the mind's level of awareness.

"You're angry, aren't you? Whenever you're annoyed, you go into those bloody breathing patterns. Why don't you just lose your temper and be done with it?"

He gripped the wheel tighter and fixed his attention on the highway traffic.

"You could acknowledge that you heard me, at least."

"Getting angry won't help," he told her softly. "I don't even want it to."

Orient felt the tension between them suddenly dissolve, and glanced up at her. Lily was curled up in the far corner of the front seat like a long, tawny cat. Her mane of copper-streaked hair cascaded over part of her face, but he could see she was smiling.

"You're right. There's no sense getting angry," she purred.

She was silent for a few moments. Then Orient felt the tension returning.

"Maybe it would help to just talk about it," Lily suggested.

"Really nothing to talk about. You've got to do what you think best. I understand that."

"Then you're not disturbed at all that I'm going to meet Count Germaine?" The name tumbled any harmony he'd achieved with his breathing exercise.

"Just let it be, Lily," he muttered.

"I have explained everything. And you of all people should understand the significance of what I'm doing."

"I'll repeat it once more." Orient heard his voice becoming louder, and made an effort to regain control. "You've got to do what you think is best."

"But you don't have to agree that it's valid, do you? And that's the problem."

"It's my problem."

"It's our problem," Lily insisted. "I feel as if I'm betraying us, when all I'm doing is conducting a scientific experiment. We could fly off to Amsterdam together and find out if you can take part in the rite with me. But you don't want to. Why?"

Orient sighed. "I guess I'm not interested in living forever."

"I think it's your basic sexual-guilt hangup," Lily taunted.

"And I think you're baiting me," he said very softly, through clenched teeth.

Lily didn't speak for a long time. Then her voice was against his ear, covering his emotions like warm honey.

"I'm sorry, Owen," she murmured, caressing the back of his neck. "I know I'm being a bitch. I should be grateful that you're not making some outraged Victorian scene. I won't press it."

Her touch melted his anger, but not his confusion. He knew he had no right to disapprove of Lily's beliefs. And yet he did disapprove, despite the fact that he'd found no logical basis for his feelings.

In a way, his confusion had begun long before, when Lily first came to live with him. From the start, her presence had both enhanced and disturbed his life.

Her personality was in direct opposition to the habits he'd developed when single.

For most of that time he'd led a private, almost monastic existence, dedicated to developing the scientific techniques of telepathy and his own psychic powers. He was motivated by more than ambition. Since his initiation as a first-level adept in Tibet, he'd come to regard his work as an obligation. Lily regarded it all as a lark.

She'd swept into his life as if it was an apartment badly in need of a decorative overhaul. She replaced his wardrobe, rescheduled his work habits, and restyled his social image.

She loved activity and was given to wild swings of mood. Even after a year together, Orient was never quite sure who the girl sleeping beside him would be when she awakened.

Today she was Scarlett O'Hara, going with the wind to keep a slightly scandalous appointment. But Orient wasn't sure if he was Gable in the scene, or Leslie Howard.

Her hand moved off his neck and moved teasingly along his chest. "You haven't even said you'll miss me. Not even after making wild, delicious love to me all morning."

"Hard to find the words to say good-bye to a moon goddess."

"Don't try your mystical sweet talk on me, you cad. You're avoiding the question. Are you going to bloody miss me or not?"

He grinned.

"You know bloody well I'll miss you."

"I'm so glad you said that, darling. So spontaneously, too. Gives a girl a feeling of security." She snuggled against his shoulder and remained curled up against him, like a little girl, until they reached the airport.

She straightened up as they entered the parking lot, and primped her hair nervously in the rear-view mirror.

"Got everything?"

She bit her lip and nodded. "Think so."

Orient watched as she checked through her snakeskin clutch bag for tickets and passport. One moment she'd been a sleepy child, and the next saw her as a fretting lioness, anxious to be loosed from her long confinement.

"I'm together. Everything's here."

She looked up.

The afternoon sun streaming in through the windshield set off bursts of coppery fireworks in her hair, framing her golden-skinned face with gleaming bronze highlights. Though her finely boned features tended toward delicacy, they were strengthened by a reckless upward curl of her pink mouth. As she tried to smile, he saw flecks of orange lightning flash across her amber eyes. Then they misted over, and she was in his arms, her face warm and wet against his.

"Take care of yourself, my darling," she whispered. "Remember I love you."

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her tears mingling with the perfume on her neck.

"Come home soon," he said softly.

She leaned back and looked up at him. "Perhaps I can ask Count Germaine to consider you for next year's rite. So we won't have to go through these farewells."

Orient felt his muscles stiffen.

"What's the matter?" Lily pulled away and sat up, her eyes flashing angrily. He shook his head and stared through the windshield.

"Are you annoyed again because I mentioned Germaine?"

"Your timing could have been sharper."

"I don't believe he upsets you so much. You know who Count Germaine is. And you should understand what this rite means to me."

Orient took a deep breath, but he wasn't able to suppress the resentment surging past his lips.

"I understand, Lily," he said very slowly, "but I still don't give a damn about Germaine or the rite."

As he spoke, he felt the tension flaring up around them like a thick cloud of static electricity.

"And me?" Her question cracked like a pistol in the enclosed space.

"You know how I feel about you."

"I'm afraid I do."

She waited for him to answer, but he couldn't. His emotions were pounding, but his words were twisted up in his throat.

When she spoke again her voice was flat and cold.

"All right, darling. You needn't bother going with me to the plane. All a lot of bother anyway." She stepped out of the car, opened the back door, and pulled out her suitcase.

"I'll call you when it's over," she said, just before slamming the door shut.

Orient was still trying to untangle his confusion as he watched her stride away. The great bubble of nervous energy that had ballooned between them collapsed when Lily shut the door, leaving his whirring emotions suspended in a shock of emptiness.

On reflex, he went into a breathing pattern, inhaling slowly through his nostrils and exhaling from his diaphragm, until the tension within him relaxed.

He considered going after her, then reached into his pocket for his cigarette case and extracted a hand-wrapped cigarette.

As he smoked he contemplated the enigma of his relationship with Lily. They had the unique ability to merge minds and yet were still unable to resolve their personal differences. In the last few months even the telepathic communication had faded because of their constant disharmony.

Orient understood that he wasn't used to women like Lily and the things that amused them. The ways of fashionable parties and clever groups were lost on him. He'd always found life's real wisdom in conversations with ordinary people.

And Lily was born holding an engraved invitation in her hand. As Lady Lilith Sativa she was reared to grace the social arenas, and she was a natural contender. When news of her powers during the full moon reached the press, they dubbed her the Moon Lady and made her the most publicized deb in Europe.

When Orient met her, she'd already established an international reputation as a clairvoyant, but had no control over her powers. She never knew how the lunar phase would affect her.

They'd worked together for months in New York while Lily learned to use her potential effectively. She quickly mastered the technique for mental projection of thought images and, less quickly, learned to protect her extreme sensitivity to the moon's attraction.

But as their attachment to each other grew deeper, their difference became more apparent. Lily had restless periods when she would drag him through the city's chic salons in search of diversion. Those times were difficult, but as the cycle neared for Lily's yearly ritual, an alien tension wore down his emotions. An unexpected resentment that ground relentlessly at his patience. He knew the sexual acts required for the ritual of the Serpent Fire were just external forms, necessary for the arousal of life's primal flame at the base of the spine. He understood that the tantric rite had the power to maintain its practitioners in a perpetual state of suspended youth. Ageless and vital.

But he didn't know how to contain his natural animal jealousy. As a result, Lily was flying off alone to participate in the ritual. And their year together had come down to a brief exchange that seesawed violently between tenderness and antagonism.

Orient ground out his cigarette and slipped the stub into his silver case before starting the car.

For a moment he sat listening to the throaty rumble of the seven-liter straight-six Rolls engine. The vintage Ghost was one of the few enthusiasms that he and Lily still shared. The car, and making love; everything else was a question.

One that might never be resolved, he reflected wearily as he drove the Ghost out of the parking lot and away from his last chance to see Lily.

Orient arrived home tired, hungry, and tense.

He accepted his condition as temporary and looked ahead to a long workout in his meditation room. That, and a good night's rest, would help ease the knots in his brain.

He hoped that Sordi had taken the day off, so he wouldn't have to dodge questions about Lily's departure, but he was waiting in the study when Orient entered.

"Lily get off all right?" he greeted genially.

"Oh, sure, fine." Orient stood awkwardly for a moment, then started walking to the other door. "I'll probably be working late tonight. You may as well take the weekend off."

Sordi's lean, leathery face showed no surprise.

"Okay, doctor. But before you get lost up in your meditation room, I think you should know Sybelle Lean is joining us for dinner."

He stopped and turned. "How did that happen?"

Sure that he had Orient's full attention, Sordi took his time answering. His white hair, aristocratic features, and elegant dress gave him the air of a successful European diplomat, and he accepted the role with enthusiasm.

He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from the cuff of his peppermint-striped silk shirt and assumed an expression of discreet innocence.

"I explained you'd probably be tied up, but she said it was really important. So I invited her to dinner. I can call her if you like."

Orient shrugged off his momentary annoyance. He knew that Sordi's instincts were usually correct.

"Don't bother calling. It's all right. Do I have time for a shower before she gets here?"

A sly smile cracked Sordi's dignity.

"Sure. It'll give Sybelle time for an extra drink or so before dinner."

Orient decided to relax his lingering tensions with a short workout before his shower. Just as he was ready to begin he caught a glimpse of himself in the bedroom mirror and realized, with some surprise, that he'd lost weight over the past few months. He was tall and naturally slender, but now the long muscles in his abdomen and legs were deeply defined. There were dark circles around his green eyes, and they were set way back in the hollows of his gaunt, high-boned face.

He resolved to try to keep better hours and pay more attention to his diet, as he got down on the carpeted floor to begin his exercises.

For the next twenty minutes he went through a series of stretching, bending, and breathing patterns. When his body felt warm and loose, he took a steaming-hot shower, finishing with a hard, cold spray that sent the blood tingling through his skin.

By the time Orient returned to the study, he was completely refreshed and prepared to field Sybelle's impending barrage of designated questions.

Her presence was announced by the hefty mezzo-soprano trills echoing from the study.

"Owen, darling," she gushed as soon as he entered, "Sordi tells me that Lily went off to Amsterdam. Did you have a lovers' quarrel? Tell me everything."

"Hello, gorgeous." Orient kissed her round, upturned cheek and sat down beside her. "I thought you came over to tell me something. Losing weight?"

"Gained three pounds this week. I'm fatter than ever, and you know it. Don't try to sidetrack me, darling."

She drained her glass, set it down, and perched expectantly on the edge of the couch like a plump, expensive bird. A crest of hennaed red hair curled around her pink face, and her small dark eyes darted indignantly from beneath dark green shadow. Her ample curves were enhanced by a fastidiously tailored tobacco silk pantsuit, and a few discreet emeralds set off her long green-lacquered nails.

"Now, tell me exactly what you did to make Lily leave," she demanded.

Orient grinned and shook his head. He knew from experience that beneath the flamboyant plumage Sybelle was a gifted and tough-minded psychic who used her powers with the precise skill of a master watchmaker. And he also knew she had a dowsing rod instead of a nose when it came to sniffing out juicy tidbits of gossip, no matter how faint the aroma.

"All right," he sighed. "I can see it's no use trying to fool you. We had a falling-out."

"For goodness' sake, why? I thought you were so happy together."

"It was another woman."

Sybelle's mouth widened. "Another woman?"

He nodded sadly.

"Lily found out about my infatuation with a lady Rolls-Royce mechanic. For the sake of the car, she closed her eyes as long as she could. She was admirable. But when she found us together in a strange coupe, it was -- "

"Owen Orient, you are not amusing," Sybelle fumed. "I don't see why you're so damned flippant... Why, look!"

Sordi's entrance with a tray of drinks delayed the full impact of her wrath. Orient sat back, reached for his silver case, and picked out a hand-wrapped cigarette.

"My dear Sordi," Sybelle cooed sweetly, "I don't understand why you never made some woman ecstatic with joy and married her. Some woman who appreciates your shining qualities."

Sordi's smile was guarded.

"Thanks, Sybelle, but I'm much too busy these days to think of settling down. I'm helping the doctor with his new film. This one should win a prize somewhere." He took a drink from the tray and sat down. "Lily's in the movie too."

Orient tried to come up with something to steer the conversation elsewhere, but he wasn't fast enough.

"How come Lily decided to go to Holland? It's still pretty cold there," Sordi commented.

He decided to try a half-truth.

"Count Germaine called and asked her to take part in an experiment during the next moon phase. She'll be away for only a couple of weeks."

"There!" Sybelle lifted her glass. "Finally. Why didn't you just say that in the first place? You are the most devious man I've ever met."

She turned away and favored Sordi with a dazzling smile.

"This is a divine martini."

"You must give me the recipe."

Orient thought the worst was over and started to relax, but Sybelle turned and tossed him a slightly barbed question.

"By the way, darling. I always had the impression that you disliked the count?"

He gave up all pretense at parrying. Sybelle was a grand master at the art of extracting the real dirt.

"I do find it difficult to relate to Germaine personally," he admitted.

"What about his work?"

"I don't understand much of it. But it seems to be taking a strange direction."

"Interesting," Sybelle said. "I have the same odd feeling about his work. Where he's trying to go with it. But of course, I know very little myself."

"But you and Germaine are old friends," Orient prompted, suddenly absorbed in the tack that the conversation had taken. "What was he involved with when you first met him?"

"I helped him found his Library of Psychic Research. And then later he helped me set up a seance library. You know, to record and photograph various spirits that appear. But it was a complete fiasco. He was very helpful and considerate, though." She sighed.

"Such a handsome gentleman. So European. I was quite taken with him when I was nineteen." She glanced at Sordi and smiled. "Of course, that was twenty years ago. Anyway, I never did find out much about his work."

Orient stared at the burning nub of his cigarette. "That's a long time for you to know someone without coming up with something."

"You seem very interested," she observed.

"Professional interest. After all, he is a fellow member of SEE."

Orient was telling a half-truth again. It was true that Germaine was the head of the Society for Extranormal Exploration, which had been formed to correlate new discoveries in the field of psychic research. Sybelle and Lily were also members of the society, but neither of them knew the whole truth concerning the count.

Orient understood that Germaine was one of the Nine Unknown Men, a secret chief in the hierarchy of occult adepts. Orient had come to know this because he himself was a second-level initiate of the brotherhood. But even with this, he found it difficult to trust Germaine completely. There had been cases in the past of renegade chiefs who broke from the path of light to form opposing lodges in the name of evil.

"I've been associated with SEE since its inception, and still never learned anything about the count's work," Sybelle was saying. "He's as tight-lipped as you are. Exasperating. I do remember a treatise he wrote on sexual magic. Quite fascinating."

She put her glass down and frowned.

"You know, that man hasn't changed since the day I met him twenty years ago. I thought he was about sixty then. Last year, when I saw him in London, he looked fifty."

Orient let it pass. Despite the fact that he instinctively disapproved of Germaine, he respected the man's position in the hierarchy. He also understood that if he revealed any part of Germaine's secret, he'd also unlock the door to his own private path.

"It's strange," Sybelle went on, "but the count and I have grown farther apart these last few years. Even as life seems to bring us closer, I find it very difficult to communicate with him lately. Almost as if he wants to forget our long friendship."

"Don't worry," Sordi advised, pouring her another martini. "Everybody has moods. Even the doctor and Lily have funny days. The count probably doesn't mean it."

He looked up to make sure Orient was listening.

"What was the news you had for us tonight?" Orient asked quickly. "Sordi said it sounded important."

"Oh, that." Sybelle tossed her head. "I suppose I was flattered when Sordi invited me for dinner. I do adore his cooking. But there was one thing I wanted to ask you. A little favor."

Orient folded his arms. Sybelle's little favors usually involved assistance at one of her seances or Skrying sessions, both activities that he tried to avoid.

"An old friend of mine called me yesterday. Gladys Weber. I haven't seen her for at least ten years. She didn't have anyone to turn to, and then she saw me on one of those talk shows." Sybelle patted her frizzy hair.

"After all, as New York's leading medium I do have a responsibility to try to help where I can. Anyway, Gladys told me that her son's been missing for weeks and the police won't, or can't, do anything about it."

"What makes you think you can?"

"Well, I can try, can't I? All Gladys wants us to do is take a look at Arnold's room. That's her son's name. Perhaps we can sense some sort of vibration or something that will give us a clue."

"Us?"

Sybelle's smile made the Mona Lisa seem like a giggling schoolgirl. It was both disapproving and disarming, and had the effect of making Orient's question appear slightly rude.

"Now, don't get stuffy, darling. I just wanted the benefit of your experience. After all, you did teach me the telepathic technique. And you're the most brilliant male psychic I know. Please say you'll go with me."

"Sounds really interesting to me," Sordi prodded. "Maybe we can use it in the movie."

Orient held up his hands. "Easy, now. Everybody's jumping on some very shaky conclusions. I personally think it's a terrible idea."

"Really?" Sybelle's voice was frigid. "And why, may I humbly ask, is that?"

"First of all, have you considered that your friend's son may want to be missing? How old is he?"

"Arnold's twenty-five. But I think I'd better explain that he's never done anything like this before. He is high-strung. But a very good boy. I know him personally. I can assure you it's not just maternal hysterics, if that's what you're implying," she added, glaring at him.

He sat back in his chair. "Examining Arnold's things could, and I stress the word 'could', be of vague help. But only if Arnold met with a fatal accident. At best, all we'd get is a subtle impression. And it may cause your friend more anxiety than good."

"Well, Gladys is a dear old friend of mine, and I'll go over there by myself if that's how you feel. I explained to her over the phone that I probably wouldn't be able to solve her problem, but she's quite distraught. Even just a visit will be a comfort to her. She's all alone, you know," Sybelle reminded sweetly.

Orient continued to resist. "I'm a stranger to her. My presence would be unnecessary."

"Now, don't be modest, darling. You are a trained physician. Oh, what the hell. Don't come." Sybelle shrugged and examined the green lacquer on her fingernails. "I was counting on your superb sensitivity, but if your mind is on other things, I mean, if you can't concentrate properly, then perhaps we should forget I asked."

"My concentration is fine. What makes you think it isn't?" As Orient spoke, he had a sinking feeling that Sybelle was reaching up her sleeve for an ace.

"Well, I mean, with Lily gone and all." She looked at him innocently. "You probably don't feel up to something like this. It would be a strain emotionally."

Orient shook his head slowly, knowing he was cornered. "I'll go, if you feel it'll help your friend." He sighed. "But I still think it's useless."

"Oh, good," Sybelle gushed, beaming with triumph. "I'm so pleased. I told her we'd be there at eight. It's almost that now."

"Oh, no!" Sordi protested. "You're going to be a little late. First you try my hot and cold antipasto, and some of my special Ischia salad. Otherwise the doctor won't eat until tomorrow."

To Orient's relief, Sybelle didn't mention Lily's absence again. She turned her full attention to Sordi and the array of food he'd prepared.

After dinner, as he drove Sybelle to her appointment, he half-listened to her running commentary as he mentally calculated his work schedule for the coming week.

"Now, please don't be negative when you talk to Gladys," Sybelle warned. "Remember, she's having a hard time of it. Try to be reassuring. Use that bedside manner you were so famous for when you were still practicing medicine."

He nodded dutifully. "Don't worry, I'll be civil. I'll even help her if I can. But I won't play along if it's just a neurotic game. Don't forget, you haven't seen your friend in ten years. People change."

"Owen, you are incorrigible," Sybelle said. "Just try to act like a gentleman. If you still remember how."

Gladys Weber lived across town in a small apartment house overlooking the Fifty-ninth Street bridge, and when Orient met her, he was immediately sorry he'd dismissed her anxieties so casually.

She was a small, frail woman in her sixties, dressed in a plain cashmere cardigan and long tweed skirt. Her white hair was twisted into a neat bun, making Orient think of pressed flowers and sepia-tan photographs.

It seemed difficult for her to speak, and despite her fumbling attempts to be a gracious hostess, her dry, haggard face betrayed days of suffering.

Sybelle subdued her natural flamboyance as she chatted quietly with Gladys about places and people in their past. She seemed to be concentrating on maintaining a compassionate empathy with her friend, and after a few minutes Gladys responded. The tense lines around her mouth relaxed into a half-smile, and her dull gray eyes began to shine.

Orient had watched Sybelle work with troubled patients before, but he still marveled at how easily she was able to draw Gladys out of her depression. The plump, extravagant medium had a superb instinct for people.

"Now, you must tell us everything you can about Arnold," she prompted when Gladys seemed calm. "Was he unhappy about anything?"

"The most difficult thing is trying to explain why he'd go away." Gladys clasped her hands tightly. "Arnold's been quite happy at his job. He's doing well. Just moved into a new apartment. And we've been getting along very well. Lately he's been coming to dinner every Monday and Thursday. And sometimes he stays here over the weekend."

Her voice began to break.

"Until he disappeared." She looked up and smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, doctor. I know I sound like a silly old woman."

Orient leaned forward in his chair. "Not at all. We're here to help. Please tell us when you knew Arnold was missing."

"Two weeks ago. That Monday Arnold didn't call and didn't come home for dinner. I phoned his office the next day. He wasn't there, and he hadn't phoned. Then I went to his apartment. I have a set of keys, and when I got there..." Her voice began to shake, and it took her a few seconds to calm down. "When I got there, I found that everything in the apartment was broken. Even the light bulbs; I had to replace them. Then I saw. Nothing was stolen. The TV was smashed, but everything was in place. An open box of jewelry on his bureau was untouched. Except for the watch his father gave him. The crystal was smashed." She took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

"There, now, try to be brave, dear," Sybelle soothed. "Tell us as much as you can. Was there any sign of a struggle?"

"No. Everything was in place. All the furniture."

"Did you go to the police?" Orient asked.

Gladys grasped Sybelle's hand and nodded slowly. "They went to the apartment, but they said there was no evidence a crime had been committed. They suggested that Arnold smashed his things before leaving. They said it happens all the time. People become frustrated, break things, and leave. They told me he probably took a vacation with a girl. Then they sent me to the Missing Persons Bureau, but they haven't called since."

"Didn't Arnold leave home once before?" Sybelle asked gently. "I remember something a few years ago. What happened then?"

"It was right after his father died. He wanted to be on his own, and went to stay with friends. And even then, we weren't getting along, but I knew where he was. He didn't just... drop out of sight without a word." She buried her face in her hands.

As Sybelle moved over to comfort her, she looked at Orient. He opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. He was moved by Gladys Weber's situation, but he had no idea of how to help her.

"Sybelle," Gladys said suddenly, lifting her head, "I know you have special powers. Please help me find my son. Read the cards, or the crystal ball. I haven't much money but..."

"Oh, Gladys, dear, I am sorry," Sybelle sighed, embracing her, "but my abilities are limited. Using the cards or the Skrying glass, I can get some indication of future events, but locating someone or something is very difficult. However, I promise I'll do everything I can. And so will Owen. Isn't that so, darling?"

Orient murmured agreement, relieved that she'd avoided making rash promises just to ease her friend's agitation. Sybelle's discretion spoke well for her professional standards. Still, there were some unusual aspects to Arnold's disappearance. He decided to try some exploratory techniques.

"Do you have any photographs of your son?" he asked softly. "One or two would be fine."

"Yes, of course. Excuse me a moment." She walked quickly into the next room, as if grateful for the opportunity of being useful.

As she left, Orient began a deep-breathing pattern, charging his concentration.

Sybelle immediately grasped what he was doing. She nodded and half-closed her eyes.

He slowly drew his consciousness inward, focusing on the reality of his heartbeat, and compressed his awareness around the pulse, slowing it down. Then he opened his senses and released a tentative vibration.

There was a soft implosion at the base of his brain when the vibration made contact with Sybelle's waiting consciousness. An electric surge of positive energy washed over his senses, and he felt refreshed, as if he were taking a first breath of pure air after months in a mine.

"Here are a few. There aren't many left. I gave some to the woman at the Missing Persons Bureau."

Gladys came across the room and handed him three snapshots, then sat down next to Sybelle.

Orient's awareness was tingling as he held the photographs, and the communication he'd achieved with Sybelle fueled his probing sensitivity.

Two were posed pictures of a plump, dark-haired boy. In one he was a three- or four-year-old in short pants sitting glumly on a pillow. In the next he was a little older, wearing a suit and grinning at the camera.

The third was a candid shot taken at a party or reception. Arnold was perhaps twenty and dressed in a tuxedo. His body was half-turned as he conferred with an elderly gentleman, and the camera had surprised him in the act of whispering something. Everything about him seemed hypertense. Orient's trained perceptions could sense the strain working on Arnold at that moment in time.

He seemed frozen in the grip of some complicated and unhealthy anxiety, his eyes narrowed with paranoia and his mouth twisted with self-hate.

"He seems very intelligent," Orient commented as he passed the photographs to Sybelle.

Gladys managed a vague smile. "He was very good in school. And he's been promoted twice this year at his firm."

"Tell me, dear," Sybelle interrupted. "Can you show us Arnold's room? I'd like to get a better impression of his personality. I'm not getting enough from these."

Orient didn't fully comprehend Sybelle's direction, but he could feel the serene confidence of her vibration and understood that she wanted him to follow her lead.

He went with the two women to a small bedroom to the rear of the apartment.

It was neat to the point of being austere, and devoid of any ornaments. When Sybelle opened the closet, he could see that the few articles of clothing inside would offer little inspiration for psychic insight. They were the effects of a transient.

"Isn't that awful. I don't seem to get anything here, either," Sybelle complained. "Would you mind terribly if we took your key and visited Arnold's place? I'd like to get a stronger impression of his life style. Perhaps something there will give me a lead."

Gladys bit her lip. "I suppose it's all right. It's still a mess. I couldn't bear to go back there."

"Don't worry about that, dear. A bachelor's quarters are usually untidy," Sybelle assured her.

Orient said nothing as Gladys fetched her purse and handed her the key. The impression he'd received from the third snapshot had been interesting. He was pleased that Sybelle suggested visiting Arnold's apartment without alarming Gladys.

In his sensitive state he could feel the woman's balance teetering on the verge of hysteria.

Sybelle handed the key to Orient.

"We can go over there now. Unless you want us to stay with you awhile longer."

Gladys smiled and shook her head. "I'm quite used to being alone. It's more important you go there and see for yourself. Maybe it will help find Arnold."

"I'll call you tonight, after we've been there," Sybelle said, embracing her. "And we'll have dinner tomorrow."

Gladys reached out and took Orient's hand. "Thank you, doctor, for taking time to listen to a mother's foolish fears."

"Your fears aren't foolish, and all we've done is listen, but please call me if you need anything."

Her fingers tightened on his hand, and when she spoke, her voice was far away. "All I need is to know he's all right. Can you tell me that, doctor?"

He didn't know how to answer.

Orient remained silent as he drove uptown to Arnold's apartment. His mind kept drifting back to the hyperfrantic impression he'd gotten from the third photograph.

Sybelle, too, was unusually subdued for the first five minutes, before breaking the quiet with a question. "Did you see his face?"

He wasn't surprised that Sybelle had focused on his thoughts. They were still in empathetic communication, and very much attuned to each other. "Yes. Seemed very disturbed. Close to a breakdown, perhaps."

"Exactly my impression. I knew Arnold when he was a child. He was never so driven-looking."

"Good thing you got the key without a fuss. Gladys may be on the edge of something herself."

"I didn't want to frighten her. But after I saw that photograph, I started thinking about what she told us."

"About those things being broken?"

"It did seem very strange. Nothing I can put my finger on. But the photograph... Oh, I don't know."

"Arnold seemed to hate himself."

"Yes. That's it. It made me sad to think of him like that. Sadder for Gladys, I suppose. She loves him. Oh! I do hope we find something at his place."

The address Gladys gave them was one wing of a huge four-building complex on East Eighty-sixth. Orient and Sybelle had no trouble slipping past the doorman in the busy lobby and getting into the apartment.

Despite the rubble everywhere, Arnold's flat had the same air of spartan austerity as the room in his mother's home. There was no sense of disorder, even though the tables, bookcases, shelves, and floors were covered with bits of broken objects, and the television screen was smashed. None of the furniture was overturned, and the only decorative objects in the living room, two porcelain owls, rested unperturbed on a small wall shelf. Everything seemed to be in its proper place, even if broken.

Orient and Sybelle wandered through the rooms, their highly tuned senses casting for some sign of Arnold's personality. But there was nothing. It was almost as if the rooms had never been inhabited.

A dim instinct guided them both to the bedroom closet. Orient saw nothing unusual until Sybelle reached behind the neatly hung suits, shirts, and trousers and pulled out a worn black leather motorcycle jacket.

"I get something from this," she announced. "It's not something I can imagine Arnold wearing. He's always so fastidious."

"Any definite vibration?"

"Faint." She replaced the jacket on its hanger. "Too faint."

Orient noticed something on the table near the bed. A few blue-and-red capsules were scattered among the shards of a broken bottle next to an address book.

"Arnold uses barbiturates," he murmured.

"Oh, yes. He's quite high-strung. I'd even be tempted to agree with the police. He just could have broken up the place and gone off somewhere. Not with a girl, of course."

"Why not?" As Orient examined the jagged remains of the bottle, something occurred to him.

"Well, he is a dedicated homosexual, you see. Gladys doesn't know, or pretends she doesn't know, though I think she must suspect after all these years." She sighed and went into the living room.

Orient followed her, still preoccupied with what he'd discovered on the bedroom table.

"What are you thinking about so diligently, darling?" Sybelle demanded.

He bent over and swept up some broken bits of glass into his hand. "Take some of these pieces. Careful, now, they're sharp. Now, hold them and tell me what you get."

Orient deepened his telepathic contact with Sybelle and focused his concentration on the fragments in his own hand. The small slivers carried a vaguely disturbed vibration, as if they were bits of shrapnel at the perimeter of a long-finished battle.

"Anything?" he asked softly.

"Faint. But something." She brushed her hand off carefully. "Really, darling, it could just be one of his temper tantrums. He put on some memorable spectacles when he was a boy."

"Pretty selective tantrum."

"What do you mean, darling?"

"The only things broken are those made of glass." Orient let the fragments in his hand fall to the floor. "You can see that those yellow owls over there, and those clay vases, are still standing whole. The glass in the picture frame is smashed, but not the frame. And every one of the windows is cracked. Remember what Gladys told us about the crystal in his father's watch?"

Sybelle nodded dumbly. "But, Owen, what can that mean? Are you sure it's all the glass?"

Orient nodded. "Check the kitchen. Everything except the plates, cups, and things not made of glass."

"I'll take your word for it. But don't you think that's very strange, darling? Shouldn't we investigate this further?"

"Sure." He looked at her. "Where do we start?"

"Maybe a seance," Sybelle offered after a long pause. "What would that tell us?"

"Well... at least we'd know if Arnold is alive or dead. That would be something, you must admit."

"Perhaps. Gladys would have to be there, wouldn't she?"

"Yes. Of course. She'd be my strongest link to..." She stopped and smiled. "I see what you mean. It would be very difficult on her."

"Especially with no proof that anything actually happened to her son. All the glass being broken is unusual, but it doesn't follow that Arnold's dead."

"Now you sound like the police." Sybelle sniffed indignantly.

"Wait a minute," he protested. "I'm on your side. I'd like to help Gladys find her boy. I just don't know how."

Sybelle stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "Sorry, darling. I'm getting overanxious. But it is frustrating."

He started to speak, but she stopped him with a wave of her pink hand.

"And don't bother lecturing me about having a seance. I'll let you know before I try anything like that. Right now, the best thing I can do for Gladys is keep her company for a while. In the meantime, take me home. I'm in desperate need of a hot bath and a nightcap."

When he arrived home, Orient was still pondering the broken glass in Arnold's apartment. As he entered his bedroom, however, a sudden pang of emotion nudged the problem out of his memory.

Reminders of Lily were scattered everywhere -- bead necklaces, jars of makeup, snapshots, stacks of fashion magazines and records, sections of Women's Wear Daily, piles of clothing, all charged with the reckless intensity of her personality. The colorful presence of her belongings amplified the absence of her and his own empty need.

He realized he was drained. Everything he'd attempted during the long day and night had been fruitless. Lily was gone, and his efforts to help Gladys Weber had come to nothing at all. He felt like diving into bed and going to sleep for a week.

Instead he removed his clothes and padded barefoot to a door at the end of the hall. When he switched on the rheostat control on the wall, clusters of softly colored spots lit up the large, high-ceilinged room inside. Only a few key sections were highlighted -- certain areas on the textured walls, the pool of clear water that dominated half the room, and parts of the translucent flooring between the pool and the thick carpet. A ring of amber spots illuminated one face of a massive rock standing on the far side of the pool.

He'd designed the meditation room as an environment that would lull its inhabitants into a state of receptive serenity. The interplay of light, shadows, textured colors, clear water, aggressive stone, and passive emptiness was choreographed to suggest new levels of awareness to the mind.

Orient sat down on the rug next to the plexiglass bordering the irregular shape of the pool and began some simple stretching exercises.

At first he found it difficult to concentrate on the bends and twists of the yang series, but in a short time his breathing was flowing as naturally as the water nearby and his racing blood washed charges of soothing energy over his spine. As his muscles became warm and supple, his concentration deepened until it submerged below the conscious surface of his body.

He sat up, slipped his legs into a half-lotus position, and went into the breathing patterns of the yin series. With each cycle he went further inside his concentration, drawn by the gravity of a distant star at the center of his being. As his mind separated from the rhythms of his body and slipped into a lazy spiral around the star, his awareness opened and understood the simple reality of the universe around him. Everything was in infinite transition toward harmony. All existence was change, and the motion of change created the dynamics of existence.

Much later, when Orient returned to the physical level, his conscious mind retained the harmony he'd found in his meditative trance.

He knew that the confusion had grown from a desire to have Lily fulfill his own illusions of their relationship. He couldn't accept the reality of her performing sexual acts with other participants in the tantric rite because of his animal need to possess her.

As he stared down at the flashing ribbons of light threading through the water, Orient understood that he'd have to learn to love Lily without needing her.

His senses were still floating on the currents of that understanding as he left the meditation room, went back to his bedroom, and fell immediately into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Just before dawn, however, a vivid dream nagged at his serenity.

He was swimming beneath the surface of a cold, dark sea... he had no sense of direction, and his panic rose as his attempts to find the surface failed... then he sensed open air nearby and began flailing desperately. Suddenly his limbs became entangled in a heavy net. He strained to twist away, but the bonds pulled tighter, pinning his arms and legs... and dragged him away from the surface... down deeper into a freezing darkness that covered his blind struggle to free himself... and stifled his silent screams for air...

Chapter 3

The brash, lemon-bright beams of sunlight crowding through the windows finally succeeded in rousing Orient from his deep slumber.

He recalled the dream during his shower and noted it down afterward in a diary that he kept for that specific purpose. It was a habit he'd acquired during his psychiatric studies, and continued as his research took him into other realms of consciousness. The current dream diary included the phase of the moon, as well as the date. After jotting down the details he could recall, he replaced the book in the night-table drawer.

As he finished dressing, Orient looked forward to two distinctly pleasant possibilities, breakfast and the mail, and he hurried downstairs to see if they were available.

A pitcher of fresh orange juice, a pot of coffee, a plate of raisin toast, and tubs of butter, cream cheese, and honey were waiting on the sideboard when he entered the study. But when he looked, the silver mail tray was empty. No letter or telegram from Lily.

Oddly enough, he felt relaxed and eager to begin work, despite the letdown. As he ate, he mentally calculated the time it would take to edit down the raw footage that had accumulated around him.

The study was actually a large workroom that spanned the entire second floor of the house and served as his library, media lab, editing room, projection studio, dining room, and living area. Right now it was filled with reels of film waiting to be cut. He'd recorded every step of Lily's progress as she learned the techniques of telepathic communication. And now it was time to complete the project. He wondered if Lily would still be interested in the film when she returned. Their relationship had been closest during the weeks they'd worked shooting the process.

He poured himself another orange juice and decided not to plan on Lily's cooperation. Her moods were too uncertain. The film had to be completed to finance the continuance of his research. In time he hoped to extend the limits of the telepathic technique to include those with no special psychic abilities. Sybelle picked up the technique easily because of her natural clairvoyant powers, but for months he'd been trying to teach Sordi the rudiments, without any success. He needed more time to experiment, and the film was the only way of keeping his one-man institute going.

A large scientific foundation had funded this project generously, and he couldn't allow personal pressure to detour his professional commitment.

He'd just started checking out his equipment when the phone rang. He ignored it and continued setting up. Sordi usually gave him messages later in the day.

In a short while Sordi came up to the study.

"Good morning," he greeted genially. "Cutting today?"

"Morning." Orient glanced up and turned his attention back to the Moviola. "I want to splice this footage before we go on to the next section."

"Anything I can do?"

"Not yet."

"Any instructions in case you're interrupted?"

Orient looked up. "I'll be working all day."

"But suppose you have to stop," he persisted. "Isn't there anything that should be done?"

"The stuff in the marked reels has to be spliced." He shrugged. "I think I can clear it up today. What makes you think I may be interrupted? Are you expecting visitors?"

Sordi's lean face was impassive.

"Sybelle just called. Wants you to go down to the morgue. She said she's there with Mrs. Weber."

Orient hesitated only long enough to make sure he had his car keys before taking the elevator to the basement garage.

The stately Rolls Ghost wasn't built for speed, but he pushed the six-cylinder engine past sixty all the way down the East River Drive to Twentieth Street.

When he entered the stridently modern steel-and-glass structure that housed the office of the chief medical examiner, he found Sybelle pacing in the lobby.

"Owen, darling, I'm so glad you're here," she stage-whispered, rushing over to him. "They found Arnold. Poor Gladys is in the doctor's office. They had to give her sedation."

"What happened? Did you see the body?"

"The intern said that only members of the family were allowed. That man" -- she jerked her head toward a uniformed guard standing nearby -- "that man has been doing his utmost to prevent me from seeing anybody. First he stopped me from going inside with Gladys, and now he refuses to let me see the doctor in charge. If it wasn't for that nice intern who told me about Gladys, I wouldn't have known anything at all."

"What did he tell you?"

As Sybelle leaned closer, he noticed that her green eye shadow was streaked with dried tears. "He showed me the report," she whispered. "It said Arnold tried to drown himself while under the influence of drugs, and had a heart attack in the water."

For a moment he was silent as he considered what she'd just told him.

"Well?" she hissed impatiently. "Doesn't that sound just a wee bit suspect to you? There must be some reason why they won't let me see her."

Orient shrugged. "Happens sometimes. Especially if the victim's under stress. As suicides might be, for instance. Was there an autopsy?"

"I certainly don't know. And I'm quite worried about Gladys. She's been in there for a long time." She turned and glared at the guard.

Orient walked over to the guard and produced his credentials. Even though he'd discontinued regular practice, his physician's license still carried certain privileges. The guard immediately ushered him across the hall to a glass door marked "Office of the Deputy Medical Examiner." He left Orient at the reception desk and went into the inner office with his identification.

After a long five minutes a short, bald man in a rumpled brown suit shuffled through the door.

"Dr. Orient?" he rasped unpleasantly, dismissing the guard with a brusque nod. "Yes."

"Are you the Weber family doctor?" he demanded.

"Yes." Orient stared into the man's watery brown eyes. "Where is Mrs. Weber?"

"I'm Dr. Merck, the assistant deputy examiner. I'm in charge of the case." He held out his hand.

"May I see Mrs. Weber?" Orient repeated, releasing the limp, damp fingers.

"Right inside." Merck led the way into a plushly furnished sitting room. Gladys was lying on the couch, covered with a blanket.

"It's good you're here, doctor." Merck's restless hand searched his bald head for hair. "She became hysterical when she saw her son. I had to give her morphine."

He glanced at Orient. "I've been waiting until she's able to walk before sending her home."

Orient bent over and examined her pupils. "Any reason why Mrs. Weber's friend wasn't allowed to accompany her?"

Merck's voice gained confidence. "Only one person, a close relative, is needed to make an ID. It's city procedure."

"She's still waiting outside. I'm sure you'll agree that a victim of shock would benefit from the presence of an old friend."

"I... er, didn't know that woman was still outside. You see, there are some details to complete. Mrs. Weber will have to sign the certificate."

"May I see it?"

"The law requires that Mrs. Weber sign the certificate," Merck repeated, adjusting his stained tie.

"I'd just like to see it."

He hesitated, then reached inside his coat and produced a three-page form. Orient scanned the numbered items quickly. "I see there was an autopsy."

"There always is in a case like this. It's official city procedure," he snapped impatiently.

"May I see the body?"

The question hit Merck's face like a slap. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips into a pained squint that gave him the appearance of a petulant cherub.

"Can't be done," he grunted. "It's against all city procedure."

Orient tried to keep from raising his voice.

"Look, doctor," he said slowly, "you just pulled a boy who's been missing for two weeks out of the river, and from what I can decipher from your official report, the cause of death is listed as cardiac arrest. I'd like to examine the body, if only to reassure his mother. You know her condition."

"Against city procedure. Sorry."

"I'll be able to examine the body at the undertaker," Orient persisted. "Why not here?"

Merck held out his hand, as if he hadn't heard. "May I have the report, please?"

As Orient passed Merck the papers, he noticed a spot of blood on his frayed shirt cuff, and two things occurred to him.

"Of course," he murmured, "the body can't be released to the undertaker until Mrs. Weber signs the papers. And the case is closed. Is that how it works?"

Merck's face retained its suspicious squint. "That's how it works, doctor. It's -- "

"City procedure," Orient finished. "Tell me, doctor, is it city procedure to prescribe morphine for simple shock? Why not Thorazine?"

"It was the only sedative available." The confidence in his voice stumbled. "We don't keep much medication on hand here. It's mainly an administrative office."

"Morphine's an interesting choice of emergency stock," Orient observed, staring at him. "Mrs. Weber's eyes were extremely dilated."

Merck avoided his face.

"We need something that's generally effective," he insisted weakly. Then he lifted his shoulders and looked up defiantly. The centers of his watery brown pupils were very small and dark.

Orient understood he'd diagnosed his condition correctly. The assistant deputy medical examiner had an arm in the drug till.

"Call in your friend to stay with Mrs. Weber," Merck muttered. "We don't usually do this without authorization, but since you're the family doctor, I'll take you myself to see the body."

After fetching Sybelle, Orient followed him across the hall and down a long corridor to a service elevator. They went down one flight and walked to the end of another long corridor. Merck unlocked a door marked "No Admittance" and held the door open.

Orient entered a small room that contained a table and a folding chair. One wall was covered by a green curtain. Dr. Merck went to the wall and pulled aside the curtain, revealing a plate-glass window.

Orient moved closer. There was a body lying on a table on the other side of the window. All he could see was Arnold's face. A blanket covered the rest of him from neck to feet.

"I'd like to make a full examination," he said. "You've already got an ID."

"Why?" Merck asked belligerently. "What's your stake in this?"

"My stake is just finding out how Arnold Weber died. I don't believe your report contains all the facts. It's that simple."

"Nothing's simple, doctor." Merck took a handkerchief from his pocket and loudly blew his nose. When he was finished, he looked at Orient and smiled.

"While you examine him, I'll tell you what we know. Unofficially, of course." He started for the door, then stopped.

"Did you know the deceased was a homosexual?" he asked casually.

Orient closed his eyes and nodded.

"Did you know he had a record?"

He looked at him. "Arrested?"

Merck opened the door.

"Picked up on a vice charge about a year ago," he wheezed as he walked ahead of Orient and unlocked the next door along the hall. "They found a bunch of them in an empty van. On the waterfront. That's where they go. Sadists and masochists. Degenerate types. All queers. Leather boys, they call themselves."

The petulant squint of disapproval returned.

Orient looked down at the body lying on the table. The features were distorted from immersion, but the expression Orient had seen in the photograph hadn't changed. Arnold's face was frozen in the same intense grimace of self-hate.

"Deceased was bound and severely whipped before death occurred," Merck said, pulling back the blanket. "He'd also been branded. That's a fairly common practice among these weirdos. He was in the water for about ten days."

Orient moved around the table, examining the bloated, discolored body. The skin around the ankles and wrists was scraped and blackened. Most of the area on his back and shoulders was streaked with darkened slashes. The only thing Orient could tell from the raw brown mark was that it seemed to be the letter L.

"Whip marks across the back. Recent brand mark on left buttock," Merck droned dispassionately. "Deceased was committing an unnatural sexual act, and his heart stopped."

Orient looked up. "That's an unimaginative conclusion, considering the evidence here."

Merck ran a hand over his bald head.

"You're a smart man, doctor," he said calmly. "That's why I decided to let you see for yourself. We get seven or eight of these cases a year. In this case, there were no head wounds, bone fractures, punctures, nothing. No mortal wounds of any kind. There were some barbiturates in his system. Not enough. And the COD was definitely not drowning. "

"What would you call it?"

He didn't answer.

"It's obvious what happened. These queers started playing too rough, and he died from overexcitement. Then his pals panicked, dressed him in his motorcycle outfit, and dumped him in the river. They're just filthy degenerates."

"Like drug addicts?" Orient asked softly.

Large beads of sweat appeared on Merck's forehead.

"Is that why you're suppressing an investigation, because he's a homosexual?" Orient persisted.

"In my estimation, the expense of an investigation isn't justified."

"Not justified? A missing boy turns up in the river, after being bound and beaten, and you're claiming natural causes on your report. That smacks of incompetence to me. You don't even mention the condition of the body in the certificate."

Merck peered at him shrewdly.

"As I said before, doctor, you're a smart man. I'm sure you can see my report spares the embarrassing scandal. Or do you think the boy's mother already knows the truth about her son? I'm doing her a favor." He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

As Orient looked down at Arnold's battered, water-swollen body, he remembered the dream he'd had.

"What time did they find him?" he murmured.

"They pulled him out of the river about six this morning. Why?"

He shrugged.

"An investigation would probably destroy Mrs. Weber," he admitted. "I'll advise her to sign the certificate."

"That's very wise, doctor," Merck said quickly. He held out his hand. "Then we're agreed."

Orient looked at the hand without moving.

"I'll advise Mrs. Weber to sign your paper," he said softly. "But we're not agreed."

Merck turned away and replaced the blanket over Arnold's body.

"Please have the deceased removed quickly," he snapped. "This is a very busy office."

When he looked at Orient, his face retained its disdainful squint, but the corners of his tightly pressed lips turned up in an imitation of a smile.

"We get everybody here sooner or later. Who knows, doctor, some night they might even pull you out of the river."

With Sybelle's help, Orient managed to get Gladys home. It wasn't easy, however; Gladys was only half-conscious and unable to comprehend what was happening to her.

Sybelle contained her curiosity admirably, concentrating all her efforts on making sure her friend was comfortable. When Gladys was in bed asleep, Orient went out to make arrangements for a mortician.

After visiting a few establishments, he finally chose a small funeral home in the East Forties, called the Pucci Family Chapel.

Orient had tried to base his decision not only on price but certain intangibles such as professionalism, honesty, and diplomacy, and he'd found little of those qualities in the places he visited. As he explained the details of Arnold's death to Mr. Pucci, he still wasn't sure he'd made the right choice.

Adolfo Pucci was a squat, wide-shouldered gentleman with sparse white hair. His stubby features seemed set in a permanent expression of benign concern as he sat behind his large desk, silently polishing the lenses of his steel-rimmed glasses.

"I think we'll be able to handle everything efficiently," he assured, when Orient finished. "If the certificate is in order, there should be no problem. We've had experience with these... delicate circumstances that accompany such a tragic loss. Our service is simple, but designed to ease the pain of the living, as well as attend to needs of the loved one. Mrs. Weber will be spared further sorrow."

He replaced the glasses on his nose. "However, we do require an initial payment as deposit."

"Mrs. Weber doesn't know about the marks on her son. It may be best to mention nothing about it," Orient reminded, writing out a check.

Pucci pressed his thick hands together in an attitude of prayer. "We've been in business eighty-three years, doctor. And I can assure you she'll see her son as she knew him in life."

He reached across the desk for the check. "Leave all the arrangements in our hands. You can depend on our fullest discretion."

Orient was reasonably sure that Gladys wouldn't learn the brutal circumstances of her son's death, but he had one more arrangement to make. Before he left Pucci's office he called his lawyer and asked him to handle the details of Arnold's estate on behalf of Mrs. Weber.

When he returned to the apartment, he found Sybelle seething with impatience.

"Where have you been, darling?" she scolded. "Poor Gladys has been asleep for the last two hours. Now perhaps you can tell me what you heard from that horrible medical examiner. Did you see the body?"

Orient sank in an armchair and stretched out his long legs. "Arnold was whipped before he died. But apparently what you heard was true. He died of natural causes. His heart just stopped."

"Whipped? Heart just stopped? What the hell do you mean, darling?" she fumed, her long black lashes snapping. "Why didn't you demand an investigation?"

He rubbed his eyes. "Arnold had a police record as a sex offender. A police investigation would go nowhere, and Gladys would suffer needlessly."

Sybelle took the news as a matter of routine. "What kind of sex offender?"

"Pleaded guilty to public lewdness, but he had some sort of sado-masochistic kink. Do you think Gladys knows about the arrest?"

"If she does, I'm positive she doesn't want to be reminded of it," Sybelle said in a small voice. "I'm sorry I'm such a shrew, darling. I didn't understand. Of course you did the best thing."

"Arnold was also branded."

"Branded?"

"With an iron. It looked like the letter L."

"Perhaps if we told the police about the broken glass in the apartment," Sybelle persisted. "I mean, that proves something, doesn't it?"

"All it proves is that Arnold may have been in his apartment when he was beaten. At least, that's the verdict a police inquiry would reach." Orient looked at her. "And I'm not sure that's true."

Sybelle patted her frizzy halo of red hair and adjusted the lapel of her black velvet suit jacket.

"Before we go any further," she said firmly, "we're going to have a stiff drink."

Orient's thoughts kept tossing like logs in a river. He could, medically, accept the fact that Arnold's heart had stopped. Logically it made sense to assume that whoever was participating became frightened and threw the body in the river. But one question jammed the logic. Why had only the glass in the apartment been broken?

Sybelle came back into the room with two glasses. She handed him the small one.

"Drink that, and you'll be able to think better. But listen, darling, what happens when Gladys sees Arnold's body? Won't she know something happened?"

"I've already arranged that." He reached into his pocket and handed her two business cards. "One is the funeral home. Mr. Pucci there is aware of the problem. You can take Gladys over there in the morning. It'll be all right. The other card is my lawyer's. He'll take care of any death claims or whatever for her."

"Why, that's marvelous. It's so sweet of you to go to all this trouble." She raised her glass. "To you, darling."

Orient looked at her over the rim of his glass.

"To Arnold," he corrected gently.

Sybelle was right. The Scotch warmed his stomach and soothed the tension blocking his thoughts.

"The most important thing right now is to make sure Gladys is spared as much of this as possible. Do you think you can stay with her tomorrow?"

"Of course. I intend to be with her as much as possible these days."

"Good. I'd like you to keep her away from Arnold's apartment tomorrow morning. I'm going over there."

"Again? But we've already looked around."

"I need some things from there. For the seance I'd like you to conduct tomorrow night."

The long silence that followed was finally broken by Sybelle's question. "Won't we need Gladys?"

He shrugged. "She'd give us maximum empathy, but it'd be impossible for her to handle. I'll visit Arnold's place and pick up some of his effects. They may give us the connection we need. A sample of the broken glass may help. Can we do it without Gladys?"

"Perhaps." Sybelle folded her arms and regarded him thoughtfully. "A few of Arnold's things would give us empathy. And especially the glass, I think."

She flashed a triumphant grin.

"I'm certainly game, but I thought you didn't approve of this sort of thing. Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Because the only one who can tell us what happened to Arnold," he explained softly, "is Arnold."

Chapter 4

The next day Orient left his house before lunch and drove to Arnold's apartment. The bits of glass strewn about the floors sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the cracked windows, giving the empty rooms an oddly festive air.

He wandered slowly through them all, looking for anything that could be significant. His consciousness was still charged from his morning meditation, and he used his sensitivity like an organic Geiger counter, trying to search out areas where the vibrations seemed most active.

There were none.

Again he felt an almost unnatural lack of presence. There was an absence of any imposition of personality in the rooms. His physical senses were also unable to grasp any sign of human occupation. Not even an odor.

He stayed for another half-hour, checking through Arnold's effects, but he found nothing unusual. When he left, he took a few pieces of glass from various parts of the apartment, the leather motorcycle jacket, and Arnold's address book.

Orient then drove downtown to Kiehl's, an old and highly specialized herb pharmacy on the Bowery, and picked up some things before going to the funeral home. When he arrived at the Pucci chapel he saw that Sybelle had accomplished a great deal that day. The reception hall was filled with people, for the most part well-dressed young men, speaking in hushed tones.

He also saw that Gladys Weber had recovered very little from her shock. The ordeal had aged her considerably. She'd lost weight, emphasizing her withered fragility. She tried, but wasn't quite able, to rise and greet Orient.

"Thank you so much," she whispered, taking his hands with her trembling fingers. "Without your help, Sybelle's help, I couldn't have faced this."

He put his arm around her shoulder. "You seem a little weak today. How do you feel?"

Gladys lowered her head.

"What difference does it really make now?" Before he could answer, Sybelle came through the tangle of elegant mourners to join them.

"Mr. Pucci asked to see you as soon as you got here," she told him.

Orient nudged her aside.

"Does Gladys have a family doctor?" he asked softly. She nodded. "He's here somewhere."

"Get him. She seems on the verge of collapse."

"Oh, dear. I've been worried about her all morning, but with all the phoning and arrangements, I couldn't look after her properly. I'll find him right away."

Orient stayed with Gladys until he saw Sybelle chugging through the crowd with a middle-aged man in tow, then eased through the knots of mourners in the reception room and entered the chapel room.

There were a few wreaths near the half-closed coffin, but the circle of folding chairs in the small, dimly lit room was unoccupied. Pucci was standing just outside his office, on the far side of the chapel.

When he saw Orient, he unfolded his arms, and his bored frown became a broad, beatific smile.

"So good to see you, doctor. I wanted to speak to you. But first let me show what we accomplished on behalf of the bereaved family," he said, leading Orient to the coffin.

Arnold's face was the only part of his body that was visible.

The coffin was closed to his shoulders, and most of his neck and head were concealed by bulging satin pillows. His blotched skin was covered with thick pink makeup, over which other cosmetics had been applied to give the features expression. The effect was that of a sepia photograph that had been converted to a pastel drawing.

"Very effective," Orient murmured.

"Thank you, doctor." Pucci bowed his head slightly. "I was sure you'd appreciate our efforts. Knowing the rather deteriorated condition of the body." His lips compressed into a tight smile.

Orient sensed that he was fishing for more than congratulations. Pucci's plump body was tense under his immaculate blue suit, and his eyes were restless.

But when he spoke, his voice retained its sonorous calm. "I wonder if you'd join me in the office, doctor?"

As Orient followed, his mind turned over the meaning of Pucci's furtive behavior. He wondered if the mortician found something else when he prepared Arnold's body.

"Please sit down," Pucci purred solicitously, easing behind his desk.

Orient remained standing. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing at all. I just wanted to make sure all the arrangements are satisfactory. Mrs. Weber seemed quite dazed this morning, and I was unable to convey my deep sympathy. But I'm sure she'll recover her strength. In the meantime, I know you don't want to bother her with details, so I thought I'd give you our statement now." He pushed a piece of paper across his desk, then sat back and pressed his fingertips together as if in deep contemplation on the swift passage of mortal life.

Orient picked up the bill. When he saw the total, he shared Pucci's agitation. "This amount is over four times your estimate."

"There was a great deal of overtime. This was a very special case, as you know." Pucci smiled benignly as he took a manila envelope from his desk drawer. "I took the liberty of taking some photographs. They show the extremely mutilated condition of the deceased. And also the results we achieved overnight using our old family methods."

"Your old family methods are amazingly close to blackmail. Does your bill include the photographs and the film?" Despite an effort to remain calm, his voice was edged with anger.

"Now, now, doctor," Pucci said gravely. "I understand your bereavement and concern. But take care. Nothing was said to suggest blackmail. The film and photographs will be turned over to you personally."

"When?"

Pucci took a handkerchief from his pocket. "As you'll note, I've credited your deposit. There's no hurry for the balance. You can take up to ten days." He removed his glasses and began polishing the lenses with the handkerchief.

"What if it takes more time to raise the money?" Orient asked through clenched teeth.

Pucci continued polishing his glasses. "Then I'll have to ask Mrs. Weber to make arrangements to pay before the end of the month. If the sum presents some problem, I can arrange private financing. You can use that fancy car as security."

Frustration prodded Orient's rage. He crumpled the bill into a hard ball and moved closer to the desk. Sybelle's voice stopped him.

"Owen. Here you are," she called, rushing into the office. "Please come quickly. They've called an ambulance for Gladys."

"I'll take care of it," Pucci announced loudly, moving with surprising swiftness for a heavy man.

Orient followed him to the door, then remembered something. He stopped and looked at the desk. The manila envelope was still there.

Sybelle noticed his anger and excitement and put a hand on his arm. "Something bothering you, darling?"

"I'm all right. What about Gladys?"

"The doctor's with her now. The ambulance should be here soon."

"Nothing much for me to do, in that case. Meet me out front, near the car, in five minutes."

Sybelle searched his face. "You're sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine. Now, go. I'll see you later."

She left the room mumbling to herself indignantly as Orient went over to the desk, took the envelope, and slipped it into the inside pocket of his blazer. Then he left the office and walked slowly into the reception room.

Two interns were carrying Gladys Weber out on a stretcher as he entered. He saw Pucci across the room, and tried to make it to the front door without being noticed. But he was a few steps too slow.

"Leaving, doctor?" Pucci asked genially. "I know you won't forget our little talk. As you see, there are elements to this ceremony that require my personal attention. When you take that into consideration, I'm sure you'll agree my price is reasonable."

"I'll think about it," Orient snapped.

As he started to leave, Pucci reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

"I hope you enjoy the photographs you took from my desk." His smile broadened into a soft chuckle. "Of course, the film is in my safe. Along with more sets of prints."

Orient pulled away and stalked outside, his emotions ringing with irritation, embarrassment, and Pucci's smug laughter.

He said very little during the drive back to his house, despite Sybelle's best efforts to find out what was disturbing him. He grunted from time to time to reassure her he was listening, and wondered what he could do to protect Gladys. The sum Pucci demanded would clean out his checking account, but that didn't matter. If Pucci didn't continue his blackmail after this payment.

He still hadn't found any solution by the time they reached the house.

They found Sordi in the study, bent over the Moviola, screening some film. His lean face wrinkled into a wide grin when he saw them.

"Well, hello, strangers. I was just going to call Sybelle and..." He noticed their expressions, and his grin dropped. "What's up? You two look like you're going to a funeral."

Sybelle kissed him on the cheek. "We've been, darling. And it was dreadful. Do you think you can find me a nice tall Scotch? I've been on the go since morning, and I need a relaxer before the seance."

"What funeral?" Sordi's head swiveled from Sybelle to Orient. "What seance?"

"You tell him, Owen, darling," Sybelle tossed over her shoulder. "I've got to call the hospital about Gladys. Don't forget my Scotch."

Sordi ran a hand through his white hair and looked at Orient. "Maybe we should all have a drink while you tell me."

Orient accepted with relief. The muscles in his back and neck were still tensed from his meeting with Pucci. As he drank, and explained what had happened since he'd gone over to see Gladys two days before, Orient realized that there had to be a connection between the whipping, the L brand, the broken glass, and Arnold's death.

"His heart just stopped. Is that possible?" Sordi shook his head. "I never heard of that before."

"It happens. But rarely. And everything else surrounding his death is so strange that it does seem unlikely. And yet, the autopsy came up with nothing. That's one of the reasons the examiner was so anxious to dump the case."

"What kind of 'L' did he have branded in him?" Sordi persisted. "Could he have died from the pain?"

Orient remembered the envelope he'd taken from Pucci's desk and took it from his pocket, showing it to Sordi. "There may be a shot of the brand among these. You'll see that most of the wounds were superficial."

Sordi whistled softly as he examined the eight or nine photographs in the envelope.

Orient had no curiosity to see them. He'd already seen more than he wanted of Pucci's work.

"He was really in bad shape," Sordi commented. "The undertaker did a nice job fixing him up."

"Old family method."

"I bet that L means something. What do you think it stands for?"

"Could be someone's initial. Or a club. Or the only brand handy that moment. Hard to know if there's any real reason for it." Orient stared down at his glass. "Maybe we'll find out tonight."

"Darling, I just spoke to the hospital," Sybelle announced, plopping down on the couch next to Sordi. "She's resting comfortably, but the doctor says she may not be strong enough to attend the burial. He'll know tomorrow."

She noticed the photographs in Sordi's hand.

"What are those?" she asked playfully, leaning over.

Sordi pressed the photographs against his chest and looked at Orient. "Do you want her to see them?"

"Now, please don't patronize me, you chauvinist hounds," Sybelle scolded. "What kind of pictures are they?"

"They're photographs of Arnold's body, and they're not pretty," Orient said softly.

Her eyes widened. "Oh. I'm glad you told me. I won't look at them right now, but they'll help me prepare for the seance. Where did you get them?"

"Part of Pucci's service," Orient said casually. He'd already decided to work out the blackmail problem alone. It would only irritate Sybelle needlessly, when she needed all her concentration.

Sordi placed the photographs face-down on the coffee table. "How do you go about reaching a dead person, anyway?"

"I'm going to put myself in a special kind of trance," Sybelle explained. "And try to reach my spirit guide. His name is Victor. I've been in touch with him many times before. Victor locates the people I'm looking for. If he can. Or if he wants to. Victor was a famous actor in his former life, and he can be temperamental if disturbed at the wrong time."

"Is it the same kind of concentration as the telepathic technique?"

"Not really. It's difficult to explain, because I don't exactly know how I do it myself. But it does take another kind of concentration. More like going to sleep. Or making love," she added playfully, leaning closer to him.

Sordi accepted her flirtation with an appreciative smile.

"You have terrific talent," he admitted, lowering his voice slightly.

Orient put his drink down. "I've got some things downstairs. We'll have to prepare the room before we do anything."

"Marvelous idea, darling," Sybelle congratulated, her eyes still on Sordi.

Orient took the stairs down to the garage and fetched the shopping bag from the back seat of the Ghost. In it were the things he'd gathered at Arnold's apartment and the purchases he'd made at Kiehl's.

When he returned to the study he cleared off the dining-room table and started emptying the bag. As he sorted things out, Sybelle and Sordi came over to see what he had.

He put the motorcycle jacket on the table. "As I recall, this gave us a stronger vibration than anything else in Arnold's closet."

He took a ball of tissue out of the bag. "Some broken glass."

"Oh, that. Very good." Sybelle took the tissue and ran her hand over the black leather jacket. "I can use all this to prepare."

"Do you want the pictures too?" Sordi asked.

She made a face. "I suppose so. That's the part I've been dreading. I did know him when he was little." She sat down at the head of the table. "But of course, it must be done."

"There's this, too." Orient handed her the address book. "It's in his handwriting."

"That should certainly be enough." She took the book and began leafing through it. "Oh, yes. I get something very good from this."

While she examined Arnold's effects, Orient arranged the things he'd purchased at Kiehl's -- some small packages of herbs, a package of pure rock incense, and five beeswax candles.

"Bring five metal bowls and holders for the candles," Orient instructed Sordi, unwrapping the herbs.

He preferred to use a formula of protection from the Key of Solomon when he needed to cleanse a place of negative elements. The herbs required were nettle, henbane, and smallage; but his experiments had shown that another substance, ordinary salt, was particularly effective in absorbing energy, when combined with the basic ingredients. To this extent his research had succeeded in refining a rite developed before the first page of the Bible was written.

Sordi came back with the bowls and five glass candleholders. Orient put a mixture of incense, herbs, and salt in each bowl, as Sordi prepared the candles. Then he took one bowl and a candle, went to the east corner of the room, put the bowl down on the floor, and placed the candle next to it. He struck a match and lit the candle before firing the mixture in the bowl.

As the scented smoke began to rise, he quietly intoned the words of the formula. "0 Adonai, omnipotent El, all-powerful Agla, holiest On, most righteous Aleph and Tau, the beginning and the end. We implore Thee to cause the consecration of these pentacles through Thy power, that they be made potent against all spirits. Through Thee, Adonai, most holy and eternal. By Thy power may the mighty archangel Raphael protect this room from all evil to the east."

Orient rose and went back to the table. Taking another bowl and candle, he repeated the procedure in the south corner of the room. The only difference in the formula was that he called on the name Michael to protect the south. In the west corner he repeated the prayer, invoking Gabriel, and finally, in the north corner, he invoked Uriel.

Sybelle was still bent over the photographs when Orient returned and repeated the invocation once more, lighting the fifth bowl and candle. In this he repeated the name of Raphael, completing the formula of the Qabalistic cross.

"Is that it, doctor?" Sordi asked softly as Orient sat down.

"That's it."

"What will that do?"

Orient drummed his fingers on the table. He was anxious to teach Sordi the telepathic technique, but professionally reluctant to involve him in the occult sciences.

"The formula is intended to disperse negative energy," he said slowly. "And protect Sybelle and me from attack while in a sensitive state. We'll both be in deep concentration during the seance."

Sordi folded his arms. "What do you mean, Sybelle and you? Don't you want me here?"

"I don't know if -- "

Sybelle interrupted. "Of course we want you here. It's much better to have three people sit in a seance than two."

She glared at Orient accusingly.

He lifted his hands in surrender. "I was just about to say that I didn't know if Sybelle wanted anyone else to sit in. I guess you've answered that."

"Next time, be more positive, darling," Sybelle encouraged. She turned to Sordi. "Has this stubborn associate of yours ever explained his pet concentration techniques? Wouldn't surprise me if he didn't. He wouldn't tell his telephone number to a Trappist monk."

"He did teach me some patterns." Sordi looked at Orient and grinned. "But he keeps his other experiments private."

"What kind of experiments?" Sybelle asked, suddenly very interested.

Orient busied himself with preparing the table.

"Instead of discussing my curious habits," he suggested, "perhaps we'd better get to work and see if our techniques can get us to Arnold."

"Owen, you're too closemouthed for your own good."

But as he prepared the area Sybelle began removing her jewelry.

Orient pulled a chair next to Sybelle, who was sitting at the head of the table, then went over to the wall and switched out the lights.

The candlelight sent long shadows rippling across the walls and created looming shapes that distorted the familiar perspectives of the room. When he returned to the table, both Sybelle and Sordi had their heads bowed in concentration. Orient fixed his vision on the flickering point of flame at the center of the table and began a slow breathing pattern. As his breathing intensified, his awareness separated from the candle flame and compressed around the steady pulse of his heart. At that point he went passive. When he felt the soft contact of Sybelle's vibration, he opened his awareness further to dowse for Sordi's presence.

The energy generated by Sordi's inexperienced attempt at concentration was weak, but positive, and a strong flow of natural empathy enabled him to maintain a tentative link with Orient and Sybelle.

Sybelle stretched out her arms and took their hands. Both Orient and Sordi rested their free hands on the small pile of Arnold's effects in front of them. This served to close the circle, and also to introduce the dregs of Arnold's energy into the vibrational chain.

The moment the circle closed, Orient felt a steady current of tension that increased his pulse rate markedly.

"Victor? Are we welcome?" Sybelle asked softly.

Orient glanced up and saw that her head was bent low over the table, and her open lower jaw hung almost to her chest, as if the spring operating her mouth had snapped. Then a masculine voice rose up from deep in her chest and rumbled through her slack, unmoving lips.

"Victor... welcomes you," he said.

Her lips puckered slightly. "Can you guide us?"

"With pleasure... dear friend."

"Can you find Arnold Weber?"

There was a long pause.

"Arnold Weber?" she repeated.

"We must not... enter... dear friend."

"Please, Victor. It's important."

"Must... not enter."

Her fingers tightened around Orient's hand, and he felt the flow of tension in his wrists and arms intensify.

"Please, Victor," Sybelle rasped. "Try. We must speak to Arnold Weber."

"Yes, dear friend... try... among the lost..."

As the last word faded into silence, the dense charge of static electricity that had built up around them subsided. Orient heard the rapid pumping of his heart in the stillness, and changed the timing of his breathing. As he recharged his concentration, his heartbeat slowed.

All three of them drew their energies closer as they waited for Victor to return. Sybelle was sitting back in her chair, head lolling to one side; but her grip was firm, and her vibration remained a steady source of balance for the circle. Then Orient felt her body stiffen slightly, and heard Victor's voice rumble through the shadows.

"Be careful... dear friend... the one you seek is here."

"Arnold?" Sybelle called out hoarsely. "Are you there?"

Her arms began trembling, and a light, musical voice, like that of a child, filtered through her twitching lips.

"I'm alone here... unhappy... and alone..." The voice trailed off.

"Why are you unhappy?"

"My body..." the voice fluted sadly, before trailing off again.

"What about your body?"

"My body must... be burned..."

"Tell us about your body," she persisted, rocking back and forth in her chair. "Must be... burned so trinity... can't..."

Sybelle's body jerked to one side, as the childlike voice cut off in her throat. The cloud of static electricity hovering over the table thickened, lifting Orient's long hair away from his head.

A terrified shriek burst through Sybelle's mouth. It shivered through Orient's concentration, and he instinctively drew his awareness back, almost breaking his link with her. Squeezing her fingers, he reached out his free hand until he found Sordi's arm. Holding tight to both of them, he intensified his breathing, charging the focus of his concentration until it became an incandescent pinpoint of pure energy.

Another scream jolted through Sybelle, and she began to sob uncontrollably.

"In the powerful name Agla, go in peace!" Orient called out.

Sybelle's sobs rose in pitch until they became gales of high, sharp giggles that embedded darts of panic in his spine. His awareness skidded suddenly, and he realized that they'd lost the balance of Sordi's energy.

Hysterical laughter shuddered through Sybelle's helpless body like rampant chimes, echoing relentlessly against his concentration.

Just as the room was plunged into total darkness, he heard a sudden chorus of cracking noises, as if a thousand twigs were snapping, and felt Sordi's arm jerk away from his grip. The laughter rose to a singing whine that sliced through the darkness, slashing at his fragile link with Sybelle. His fingers tightened on her straining hand, as he fought desperately to shield his concentration from the sound.

A bright flare of illumination lifted his eyes.

As his vision adjusted to the brilliance, he saw something that impaled his awareness with a cold shaft of fear.

He tried to turn away from the radiantly clear skull hovering above him, but he couldn't. Despite every twist of will, his gaze remained fixed on its bottomless eyes. As the whine shrilled higher, the whirling galaxies of rainbow color inside the skull's transparent depths drew him closer.

He struggled to speak, but the words congealed in his throat like paste, shutting off his air. The skull loomed larger, a grinning radiance of shimmering color that mocked his frantic efforts, as the unbearably piercing whine coiled around his heart, shooting convulsive spasms of pain through his chest. He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly, making a last, feeble attempt to speak before his concentration collapsed and was sucked into the vortex of the skull's waiting eyes.

Chapter 5

A storm of chaos battered at Orient's tumbling consciousness. His memory grabbed for balance and found a dim image in the howling darkness. A picture of a loop-top cross. The ancient ankh sign of life.

As he clung to the image he felt the congestion in his lungs give way. He pushed the words through the vibrating whine filling his throat.

"By Agla..." he croaked painfully. "... by Ely, by Omega, Elothe..."

The names of power seemed to act as controls that lowered the pitch of the ringing sound.

"... Elohim, Sabaoth, Eloin, and Sady..." he continued. With each name the volume abated. He wasn't sure at which point it actually stopped, or exactly when the radiating skull disappeared, as he completed the formula of exorcism.

"... return to your true place, without revolt, now!"

A faint light shivered through the darkness.

In the dim glow he saw Sybelle slumped unconscious in her chair, a glistening stream of saliva dripping from the corner of her gaping mouth.

"A hundred damn times..." someone was saying. Orient turned.

Sordi was sitting on the floor, regarding a half-consumed match.

"I must have struck it a hundred damn times before it finally worked," he muttered to no one in particular. He touched the ebbing flame to a candle in his other hand.

Orient stood up. His ears rang uncomfortably, and his balance was shaky, but after a few moments of concentrated breathing his senses returned to normal. He bent over Sybelle's inert body and placed his hands on the back of her neck. Her skin was damp and cold against his palms.

Digging inward for his remaining dregs of strength, he stretched the line of his concentration tight, and felt his awareness begin to hum with renewed energy. He let it run down the cables of muscle and nerve to his wrists, where his will sent the energy pouring through his fingers into the base of Sybelle's skull.

His palms began to tingle with warmth as he intensified his breathing. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened wide.

"Don't try to talk," Orient said gently, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. "Just relax until you get your breath."

He moved away from the chair and went over to examine Sordi.

His face was pale, his shoulders were shivering, and he was mumbling incoherently at the candle still clutched in his hand.

Orient took the candle and secured it on the arm of a chair. Then he placed his hands on Sordi's slender neck, just below the graying, and repeated the technique he'd used on Sybelle.

In a few minutes Sordi had recovered and was able to help get Sybelle to the couch. When she was comfortable, he sank down in an armchair and looked at Orient.

"What the hell went wrong?" he demanded.

"We were attacked. If we hadn't protected ourselves beforehand, it..." As Orient spoke, he noticed that something was crunching beneath his feet. He glanced down at the floor and saw that it was covered with glistening particles. It took him a few seconds to understand what those gleaming things were.

All of the glass in the room was shattered. The jagged residue caught the rippling light from the candle and glimmered like spilled sequins against the soft carpet.

A numbing sense of loss covered Orient's comprehension. Without moving from where he stood, he knew the extent of the damage. The TV screens, the lenses in the cameras, the tubes in the music and radio systems, the mirrors, the lamps -- everything made of glass was destroyed. And so was his institute.

"Owen?" Sybelle called out weakly. "Are you there?"

He moved back to the couch. "I'm here."

She sighed and fluttered her eyelids.

"Get me a drink, will you, darling? No ice."

"I'll get it," Sordi offered.

"How do you feel?" Orient murmured, taking her pulse.

"Like someone opened the top of my head and filled it with soggy oatmeal."

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I don't want to remember anything right now."

"This is all that's left." Sordi came over to the couch holding a porcelain decanter. "You'll have to drink from this. The glasses are broken."

Sybelle sat up, put the decanter to her lips, and tilted her head back.

"Oh, I needed that," she whispered breathlessly after a few long gulps. She passed the decanter to Orient. "Try some. It's brandy, I think."

"Do you think you can tell us what happened?" he persisted.

"I'm not exactly sure. I remember a kind of electrical wind when I contacted Arnold. And becoming hysterical when I saw that awful skull. After that, I blacked out."

"What skull?" Sordi inquired. "I didn't see anything. All I heard was that fantastic noise."

"There was a presence in the room. Some sort of radiating skull over the table," Orient explained quickly. He stood up. "You'd better go out and get some new light bulbs and fuses before the candle burns out."

"But I've got plenty of bulbs and fuses in the pantry."

"I hope you're right. But I believe you'll find every piece of glass in the house is broken."

Sybelle's hand flew to her mouth. "Glass broken? You mean like Arnold's apartment?"

He nodded. "Only this time we survived. If we hadn't performed the purification rites, there would have been three new cases of cardiac arrest for the medical examiner to ponder."

Orient's guess was unfortunately correct, and Sordi left the house to find an all-night grocery that sold household supplies.

When he was gone, Sybelle turned to Orient.

"Well?" she demanded. "Why did you want to get rid of him?"

"Nonsense."

"I've never known you to send someone on an errand you could do yourself." He sighed and sat down.

"I'm not sure he should get involved in this. It's more than a seance."

"He is involved, darling. He was attacked along with us," she reminded. "Do you remember anything about the skull?"

"Only that it seemed to be carved from the clearest crystal. It was fascinating. I couldn't keep my eyes away from it. And then that awful siren went off in my head."

"That was you."

"What are you talking about, dear?" She sniffed indignantly. "It was the skull making the noise."

Orient described her emotional transitions during the attack.

"So that's why my stomach hurts so. From laughing. I must have been possessed.

"How did you get rid of it, anyway?"

"I remembered a formula of exorcism, and it worked. Didn't save the house from being wrecked," he added wearily. "I suppose we'll have to shut down."

"But, Owen, just because of the glass? How much damage could there be?"

"Not counting the windows and housewares, it'll take at least twelve thousand dollars to replace the equipment. Even if we do most of the work ourselves."

"But I'm sure you can find a way to raise the money. You do have some, don't you?"

"Some." Orient's thoughts drifted back to Pucci's inflated funeral bill. "That doesn't really matter now. There's something more important to think about. Something we have to do before anything else."

Sybelle reached for the decanter. "Cremating Arnold's body, you mean?"

"Yes. He repeated it twice before being cut off. And I think we should do everything in our power to make sure his request is granted."

"I don't know if I can convince Gladys of that."

Orient stared at the bobbing point of flame above the candle.

"You must," he said softly. "Or her son is truly doomed."

"Here's the stuff," Sordi called out. He entered carrying two shopping bags.

"Did you know the elevator doesn't work?"

Sybelle helped the two men replace light bulbs and fuses throughout the house. When the lights were on again, Sordi made a pot of coffee on the small stove in the study.

"It's going to take serious money to fix the place up," Sordi commented, looking around the room.

"May not get fixed at all," Orient told him.

"Won't get fixed? That's crazy. We can do it ourselves."

"We need at least twelve thousand to replace the equipment. And without equipment we have no way to get money."

Sordi shook his head.

"You're not on a positive vibration, doctor. Just like you always tell me." He leaned forward in his chair. "The most important thing wasn't damaged. That's the film. It's already three-quarters cut, and the rest is mapped out. We'll rent some equipment on credit and finish the film. Then you can give it to the foundation and collect the rest of the funds. It's simple. Maybe you could even get some front money for another documentary. No matter what, you'll come out even."

Orient listened carefully as he sipped his coffee. His friend was making good sense. He'd still be broke, but at least the lab would be restored. He made two decisions at the same time.

"You're right," he told Sordi. "I gave up too soon. Of course we'll finish the film, and keep the institute going."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that, darling," Sybelle gushed, raising her coffee cup in a toast. "I was getting worried for a moment."

"Just what was that skull business you were talking about when I left?" Sordi asked. "I didn't see a thing. When the candles went out and that noise came up, I got scared. I went to get another candle from the drawer."

He looked at them in wonder.

"But the damn match wouldn't light."

Sybelle turned and stared at Orient.

He met her accusing gaze without guilt. He'd already decided to inform Sordi about the nature of the attack.

"We were attacked by some sort of negative force. Definitely satanic, and very hostile," he explained. "Whatever it was had full control. That's why your match wouldn't work. Really quite powerful."

"And it looked like a skull?"

"Yes," Sybelle put in. "It seemed to be made of pure crystal. Quite beautiful, in a way."

She shivered.

"But horrible."

"Anyway, we know a few things now," Orient said. "We know what caused the broken glass, and we know what killed Arnold."

Sordi nodded. "Now all you need to know is why."

"We know part of that already." Orient reached into his pocket for his cigarette case.

"How do you know that?"

"Arnold told us," Sybelle answered, pouring some brandy into her coffee cup.

"That's right." Orient struck a match. "He asked us to burn his body. That could mean only one thing. He was killed as a sacrifice, and his spirit is still controlled by whoever killed him."

"But why, doctor?"

Orient stared at the burning tip of his cigarette. "For power. That's why Arnold was sacrificed. To fuel some ritual. What form, I don't know. I do know that if a man's spirit can be controlled beyond death, the energy generated is enormous."

"It broke through the protection so easily," Sybelle mused. "Absolutely vicious. I never felt such malevolence."

She shivered and took another sip of brandy.

"But cremating the body will break any power over Arnold's spirit. When the physical link is destroyed, he'll be free."

As he spoke, Orient remembered something. "Do either of you recall hearing him say something about a 'trinity' during the seance?"

"Not me." Sordi glanced at Sybelle.

She shook her head. "I don't... Wait a minute! I do remember something. Arnold said something about trinity. But I don't know what."

"Hey." Sordi snapped his fingers. "Could the trinity thing have any connection with the L brand?"

Orient shrugged. "It's possible. But I can't see it yet."

He looked at Sybelle.

"Perhaps I should take you home. We've still got a lot of sweeping up to do."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said loftily. "I'm going to stay right here and help you. Don't forget, I got you into this. I feel responsible for this mess."

Despite Orient's protests, she stayed on, and worked with them all through the night, cleaning up the debris. Toward morning Sordi made another pot of coffee, and they gathered in his newly cleaned kitchen for sandwiches.

"You'll have to go over to see Gladys first thing this morning," Orient reminded. "I can't make any arrangements with Pucci until she's agreed."

"Oh, dear. I hope she's well enough to listen," Sybelle fretted. "How'll I convince her that cremation is important without telling her why?"

"You'll think of something." As he assured her, he wondered how much extra Pucci would charge for the new service.

"How will you go about tracing this skull thing down?" Sordi asked.

"No idea," Orient admitted. "It may take awhile to come up with one."

"We have the address book," Sybelle exclaimed. "We can check the names in there and get some leads. That's how private eyes work."

Orient's opinion of private detectives was interrupted by the jangling telephone.

Somewhat surprised that anyone would call at such an early hour, he went over to the wall phone near the door and picked up the receiver.

"Orient?" a strange voice growled.

"Yes. Who is this?"

"Don't think you're gonna get away with this, you son-of-a-bitch," the voice ranted angrily.

"Who is this?"

"You don't know, do you? You lying rat! You won't get away with it, do you understand?" the voice screamed.

Orient listened to the furious harangue in stunned silence. When he finally understood what was being said, the blood rushed from his belly, leaving him dizzy with fear.

"Who was that, darling?" Sybelle called as he hung up. "Oh, dear. I hope it's not more bad news. You look awful."

Orient came back to the table and sat down. His gaunt face was pale, and his green eyes were wide with disbelief.

"That was Pucci," he murmured in a low voice, as if talking to himself. "Arnold's body is gone. It was stolen a few hours ago."

Chapter 6

The blaring confusion of early-morning traffic pounded against Sybelle's bruised nerves as they drove across town to Pucci's chapel.

She sat next to Orient in total silence, staring ahead at the grimy tangle of automobiles slowing their progress, temples throbbing with regret at the last brandy she'd consumed.

The seance had affected her more profoundly than she'd first realized. Every cell in her body felt soiled, as if tainted by contact with something diseased. She fervently hoped there'd be no infection.

As the car inched forward, her thoughts drifted back to Arnold's childhood years. Like so many other affluent New York brats, he'd been rudely independent, stridently manipulative, and hyperprecocious. And yet there'd been moments when he'd displayed a charming gentleness. Now his poor dead body was being held as pawn in some abhorrent ritual. She shivered, folding her arms against a chill crawling across her chest. It seemed hopeless. They'd failed to find out how Arnold died, and lost their only chance to put his tortured soul to rest.

She glanced at Owen. He hadn't uttered a word since getting behind the wheel, but it was hard to tell if it was worry or his normal preference for quiet.

Except for a brooding frown pulling at the upturned corners of his mouth, his dark, high-boned face was unmarked by exhaustion or emotion.

Sybelle wondered if he was afraid. She certainly was.

At the same time, she speculated on the depth of his involvement with occult science. He'd reacted beautifully under attack. For all his reluctance, Owen seemed quite familiar with ritual technique. She hoped her long-unsatisfied expectations concerning his psychic abilities were at least partially justified. Otherwise there was absolutely nothing that could be done for Arnold. Her own natural talent would be as effective as a kite in a hurricane against the rabid fury of another attack.

A rush of pity washed away her own fears when she remembered Gladys. Arnold's disappearance would destroy her.

The anguish caused by Arnold's death was already too much for her to endure. It would be cruel to inflict more pain on her suffering.

"We've got to keep all this from Gladys," she blurted.

His face remained expressionless. "Any suggestions?"

Sybelle opened her mouth, then clamped her lips. For a moment she resented his terseness, before realizing it wasn't apathy, but logic. She herself hadn't the first idea of how they could conceal the fact that Arnold's body was gone.

"Maybe she'll be too ill to leave the hospital," she murmured.

"A well disguised one but still a blessing," he agreed. "In the meantime, I'm going to apply some leverage on Pucci. If that doesn't work, we'll talk to Gladys' doctor. He might agree to keep her away from the services."

Sybelle wondered what kind of leverage he was talking about, but was too tired to attempt prying it out of him. Instead she speculated on Lily's absence.

As far as she was concerned, it was a miracle Lily and Owen had been together longer than a month. He was so damned dedicated. And Lily such a high-strung lady, to say the least. Sybelle was almost positive something more than research was keeping her in Amsterdam.

While the Rolls crawled downtown, Sybelle continued sifting through the fascinating possibilities of Lily's departure, including her close friendship with the dynamic Count Germaine.

When they finally arrived, she saw that Pucci was waiting outside the funeral home.

"Let me handle him," Owen whispered, as the mortician approached.

Pucci was talking before the car stopped. His face was almost blue, and his usually benign expression twisted by an animal snarl.

"... lousy bastard... who do you think you're fuckin' around with here... some kid?"

Sybelle heard him yelling when Orient opened the door. Something beyond his anger checked her desire to feed Mr. Pucci an ample piece of her mind, and she decided to let Owen handle him.

She was pleased to see that he didn't retreat for an instant from Pucci's wrath. He stepped out of the Rolls, nudging the mortician back gently but surely with the thick door.

"You're not gonna get away with this, you hear?" Pucci blustered. "If you don't get that stiff back here, I'm gonna have your head broken."

"Maybe you'd make more sense if you told me exactly what happened," Orient said softly.

His calm seemed to infuriate Pucci further. The plump mortician snapped his mouth shut, and his eyes popped out, features constricting into a lizardlike grimace. He glared venomously at Owen for a long moment, then lifted his hand.

Sybelle saw two men emerge from the entranceway of the funeral home and casually come toward the car. They were dressed in shiny blue mohair suits, white-on-white shirts, wide black silk ties, and sharply pointed black shoes. One was a short keg-shaped individual with a broken nose. The other was slightly taller, but very thin, and his birdlike face was adorned with a pencil-thin moustache. Both men sported incongruously collegiate razor haircuts, and both had the smug swagger of hired hoodlums, which they obviously were. It crossed Sybelle's mind that Hollywood had spawned an absurd code of urban machismo, and wondered if the rewards of crime weren't more sexual than financial.

"Now we're gonna step inside and have a little talk," Pucci growled as the two men took up places behind him, "without the bullshit."

Orient's eyes narrowed.

"Of course," he said evenly. "That's why we came down here, isn't it?"

Pucci silently studied Orient's face.

"You're here because I sent for you," he snapped, then turned and walked quickly toward the door.

Sybelle nervously glanced over her shoulder at the two men sauntering behind her, as she followed Orient into the funeral home. Her apprehension escalated when she saw the thin one locking the door from the inside. The man with the broken nose turned and gave her a wide smile, revealing a row of gold teeth.

She looked at Owen, but he appeared not to notice, his attention seemingly focused on the back of Pucci's red neck.

When they entered the small chapel room, Sybelle saw that the coffin was completely open now, and empty. Next to it, on the floor, was a white satin pillow.

"All right, Orient," Pucci hissed, "what did you do with it?"

"You think I stole Arnold Weber's body." It was a statement, not a question.

"I know you took it, you lying bastard, and if I have to sweat you, I will. You better tell us where he is before I lose my patience with you."

"Why would I take the body?" Orient asked quietly.

"I'm warning you, bright boy, don't play games with me," Pucci bellowed.

Sybelle's heart began pounding faster as the two men moved closer to Orient.

"I understand you're serious," Orient said slowly. "So am I. And I have no reason to steal Arnold's body. None at all."

Pucci stepped closer. "Don't bullshit me. You want to welsh on the price of the arrangements."

Orient smiled and shook his head. "If you recall, the only reason I agreed to pay your fee was for the sake of Weber's mother. How do you think her son's body being stolen will affect her? You saw the woman. It would finish her."

Pucci clenched his fists threateningly. Then his irate expression relaxed into a confused frown, and his fingers unfolded.

"I'll give you that point for now," he grunted.

Just as Sybelle started breathing normally again, however, the reptilian grimace returned.

"Goddamnit. Then who did take him?" he demanded. "Who'd want to rip off a stiff?"

"How about the person who killed him?"

"Why?"

Orient shrugged. "You saw the condition of the body. Could be there's some evidence that was overlooked. Maybe the brand. Whoever killed that boy wasn't sane. Maybe it's another part of his insanity."

"Makes sense." Pucci's brow furrowed. "Only a nut-cake would do a job and then steal back the body."

He stared menacingly at Orient.

"But I don't know if I buy that right now."

"All right, how about this?" Orient suggested, folding his arms. "I decided to save on your fee, bury the body myself, then tell Mrs. Weber that I did it to prevent a phase-ten inflation. Use your head, Pucci. Instead of all the strong-arm, try telling us what happened. When was the body stolen? How was it done?"

As he asked the second question, Orient reached into his pocket, and the two men behind him closed in fast. They spun him around, pushed him against the wall, and were frisking him before Sybelle knew what was happening.

"Okay, okay, you guys, cool it," Pucci rumbled, a low note of amusement softening his voice.

The man with the broken nose immediately released Orient and began helping adjust his rumpled clothing. The thin man didn't bother to conceal his broad smirk as he handed back the cigarette case Orient had reached for.

Sybelle's heart stuttered when she saw the bright green blaze of anger flaring through Owen's slitted eyes. But then his eyes widened and his mouth relaxed into a half-smile.

"You boys are very quick," he admitted ruefully.

Broken Nose grinned. "Kung Fu. We work out faw, five times a week sumptimes."

Pucci jerked his head toward the door. "Go outside and make sure nobody gets in."

Moving with exaggerated slowness, the two men left the room. "You'll have to excuse them, Orient. My associates are very anxious about my welfare at all times."

"Their loyalty is certainly quite moving." Orient's smile faded. "How about it? Will you tell us what happened?"

Pucci spread his arms wide.

"I don't know a thing. When we closed up last night, the deceased was where he should be. I came down early this morning to take care of some business, and when I opened up, he was gone. Whoever did it used the garage entrance around the corner. Door was jimmied. Must have been more than one; it's not easy hauling a body around like that."

Sybelle noticed that as Pucci spoke his menacing expression reverted to that of the benevolent but harried mortician. As if he'd rehearsed his story carefully, and with gestures. She wondered what prompted his concern.

"Anything else missing or disturbed?" Orient pressed.

Pucci lifted his shoulders and smiled. "There's nothing here of any value. And nothing was damaged. Except for the door."

"How about the film?"

He chuckled and adjusted his steel-rimmed glasses. "Oh, it's all right. You can rest easy on that score, Orient."

Owen sighed wearily.

"Wouldn't you think I'd go after the film instead of the body?"

The plump mortician arched his thick white brows.

"I thought you tried to get the film, and then when you couldn't, lifted the sti... er... deceased. Maybe I jumped to a conclusion. No hard feelings." He smiled broadly. "Looks like you people have a problem here."

He removed his glasses and began polishing the lenses with a handkerchief.

For a few moments Orient said nothing, and Sybelle realized that she didn't quite understand what the two men were discussing. She was about to ask when Owen leaned against the wall and smiled.

"I think you're mistaken," he murmured. "Seems to me you have a problem here."

Pucci's smile shrank, and he stopped polishing.

"Don't get cute with me, Orient," he warned, dropping his professional manners. "If the old lady finds out, she'll drop dead. You told me so yourself."

"True enough. But suppose Mrs. Weber's doctor keeps her under sedation for a few days and then breaks it to her gently after she's absorbed the first shock of her son's death? Then you'll have a big lawsuit to deal with. The publicity won't help business at all."

Sybelle found a chair and sat down as Pucci weighed the possibilities. The effects of the seance, the sleepless night, and the swiftly shifting events had brought her to that rarefied state of clarity that precedes exhaustion. She saw why Pucci tried to frighten them, and the reason for his carefully memorized explanation. A stolen body could ruin him. The lawsuit would be a tabloid circus. And she could understand why someone like Mr. Pucci would want to avoid both publicity and courtrooms. That's what Owen had meant by leverage.

Both men were standing in front of the empty coffin, facing each other, and she realized that they weren't about to fight, but were striking a bargain -- over Arnold's missing body.

She saw the mortician clench his fist, and the rosy color returned to his face. "I'll make that film public."

Orient remained unconvinced. "If you do that, the Weber family will hit you with more lawsuits. With or without the body, all the release of those shots can do is leave you open for criminal charges."

Pucci's face became deep purple, and for a moment Sybelle feared that he'd lose all control and call back his goons.

"You don't dare risk letting the old lady know what happened," he sputtered.

"Without the body, those photographs could make you look very bad in front of a jury," Orient reminded. "But why go that far? You're right. All I want to do is protect Mrs. Weber."

"There's no way to do that now. Unless you come up with her son."

"There's another solution." Orient's face was impassive as he met Pucci's glaring eyes. "But I want that other set of photographs. And the film."

Pucci jammed his hands into his pockets.

"What's in it for me?"

"You get out of this clean. No fuss. No lawsuits."

"How's that?"

"All you have to do is bury the empty coffin. Mrs. Weber is in the hospital and won't be able to be here. You can tell the others that because of the condition of Arnold's body, due to long immersion, you thought it best to seal the coffin right away."

Sybelle was both appalled and relieved. It could work. And Gladys would be spared a lifetime of anguish. She watched Pucci hopefully while he considered the offer. The cherubic, white-haired mortician could have been perfectly cast as Father Christmas. She was sure he'd accept Owen's plan. Until a stubborn scowl revealed his Godfatherly nature.

"I don't buy it."

"It'll save everyone concerned a great deal of trouble," Orient persisted. "Why not?" Pucci examined his polished fingernails. "Who pays for the funeral expenses?"

Orient's face relaxed. "I'll give you a check when you hand over the film. For your original estimate. No extras."

Pucci looked up, smiling. "Okay. Straight fee. When do I get the check?"

"When can you give me the material?"

"After the funeral. But I'll need the money now." Orient shook his head. "You already have my deposit."

Pucci hesitated, then turned and started walking toward his office. "I'm losing time standing here with you. Let's get it over with."

Sybelle exhaled loudly as Orient followed him into the office. She opened her Hermes alligator and fumbled for a compact. When she found it, however, she discovered it wouldn't help. The only thing that could salvage her face was ten good hours of sleep. She quickly snapped the cracked mirror shut and stared numbly at the office door, eyes avoiding the stark white satin of the open casket nearby.

In a few minutes Owen came out holding a manila envelope.

Pucci was just behind, hands pushed into the pockets of his coat.

"I expect you to make sure everything's covered with the relatives. If there's a lawsuit, my boys'll be in touch with you," he warned.

Owen smiled, green eyes fixed on the mortician's face. "I don't advise burying anything but sandbags tomorrow. That grave may be opened again."

Pucci's face paled, and he crossed himself. Then the angry red color flooded across his neck.

"You people are all degenerates from the start," he roared suddenly. "Keep away from me, you hear me? I don't want weirdos like you around."

He took a half-step forward, and Sybelle instinctively raised her handbag. Pucci's menacing glare backed her away. All she could see of his eyes were blinking pinpoints of murderous rage.

"Angie! Carmine!" he barked.

The two assistants appeared at the door.

Sybelle saw Owen tense his body, and decided that a kick-and-run tactic was her best chance.

For a long second Pucci regarded them, his face puckered by profound disgust.

"From now on," he told his men, "I don't want these degenerates near me or inside this chapel."

He placed both hands on his hips and jerked his head toward the door. "After you show them out, shut this coffin tight, and open up for business."

As doors were unlocked and they stepped out into the street, Sybelle heaved a huge sigh of relief. Then a quick pain stung her thigh. She wheeled, but it was too late: Broken Nose had already shut the door behind her. He gave her a lascivious, gold-toothed smile as he pulled down the shade.

"Something wrong?" Orient inquired mildly.

She smiled up at him. "Just his curious way of showing affection. But if I'm still pinchable, I can't look as wrecked as I feel."

He took her arm and guided her swiftly to the car.

"I'd defend your honor, but I think it's time for a discreet retreat," he muttered, opening the door for her.

"I couldn't agree more." She collapsed into the cool leather seats.

"Besides, you've done enough defending already. Pucci was blackmailing you, wasn't he?" she demanded as he slid behind the wheel. With a perverse satisfaction Sybelle noted that the question caught him off-guard.

"Yes. He threatened to show the photographs of Arnold's body to Gladys."

"And you were going to pay him?"

He looked at her, one corner of his wide mouth pulled up in a puzzled smile. "Of course."

"Why you, darling?"

"I had the money. I felt it was the quietest, most efficient way."

"But you know I have a fair amount of liquid assets," she admonished. "Why the hell didn't you let me help, darling? After all, Gladys is my friend. And I know you don't have money to burn. I saw the wreckage last night, remember?"

He grinned and started the engine. "When the time comes, you can pay your share."

"When will that be?"

"When I need it."

Sybelle made an impolite sound. "If you were on a desert, you wouldn't ask a cactus for a drink. Now, take me home."

She wanted to say much more, but she was too exhausted, and too impressed with Owen's work that morning. She stretched out her legs, grateful for the lush roominess of the Rolls's interior, and closed her eyes.

Sybelle's recollection of the rest of the morning was dim when she awoke. She lay in bed with her eyes closed for a few minutes, then peered through the darkness at the alarm clock. Donald Duck's luminous arms pointed to five minutes past eleven. She sat up, snapped on the light, and reached for her robe. Her deep sleep had been disturbed by a dream. About Owen.

She could hazily recall that something was after him. Something dark and loud. A sharp chill forced her to pull the robe tighter around her neck. She reached for a cigarette, hoping she'd be able to go back to sleep, but the ringing phone lowered her prospects. She felt better about it when she heard Owen's voice.

"Hope I didn't wake you."

"As a matter of fact, you did, darling, but not with this call."

"What does that mean?"

"Two can play at being secretive, dearie," she cooed.

He ignored the jibe. "I got in touch with Mrs. Weber's doctor. Unfortunately, we're in luck. Gladys is too ill to leave her bed. He's going to allow her to attend only the burial services, and then take her back to the hospital. She won't even know the casket's been closed all day. The service is at nine. I'll pick you up at eight, and we can have breakfast."

Guilt prodded at Sybelle's mood. Owen liked to keep some things to himself, but he squandered his friendship lavishly. "Thanks, darling. You know I appreciate all you've done for Gladys."

"It's not entirely for her. We all seem to be involved now."

His flat tone blew another chill across her chest.

"Tell me, did you go out today?" she inquired anxiously.

"No. Should I have?"

"Not really. I was just wondering if anything unusual happened."

"I don't think so. I went to sleep right after I dropped you off. I've been up about four hours helping Sordi sort things out."

"That's fine." Sybelle sighed. "I had this awful dream that some noisy thing was trying to get at you. Silly, I suppose."

It was a few moments before Owen replied.

"That's odd," he said.

"What's odd? Then something did happen."

"Ordinary, actually."

"Well, come on, darling," Sybelle prompted impatiently as the pause after his last word lengthened.

"I remember now. I did leave the house. For about fifteen minutes. I went to the hardware store, and as I was crossing Broadway, a motorcycle cut the corner too sharply and almost flattened me against a truck. It was fairly close."

Sybelle forced herself to sound hearty. "Well, could be that one and one are making three, but please be careful, darling. At my age, I don't want to lose any more sleep than necessary. I'll see you in the morning."

"Inshallah, if God wishes, as the Muslims say. Have a good beauty sleep."

Sybelle sat with her hand on the phone for a long time after replacing the receiver. She felt apprehensive about Owen's welfare, and devastated by the knowledge that she'd gotten him into this mess. She couldn't bear the thought of anything else happening to him. He was too rare a person. Her snap appraisal of his affair with Lily had been way off. She understood very well now that any woman would find life with Owen fascinating. His quiet ways concealed layers of strength. He'd handled Pucci beautifully, without even raising his voice. He'd also been ready to assume full financial responsibility for Gladys, who, after all, was someone he didn't even know. Very few men were generous as well as courageous. And gentle. Perhaps too gentle.

She sighed mournfully, unable to rid herself of her worry for Owen's welfare, or the feelings of guilt brought on by the destruction of his equipment.

This wasn't getting her anywhere, she decided abruptly. She had to face the public very early the next morning.

Bending one of her cardinal rules, she went to the bathroom and took a small Valium, then headed for the kitchen and rustled up a midnight breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausages, cheese salad, toasted wheat bread, and cold white wine. By the time it was consumed, she was ready to go back to bed.

The alarm clock roused her at six-thirty.

She rolled out of bed, struggled out of her frilly nightdress, and plopped down on the floor. Fifteen minutes of yoga exercises cleared her brain of tranquilizer dullness and left her refreshed. After a bracing shower she went to work on her face.

She used a subdued blue tint for her eyes, and pale pink lipstick to accent the severely cut black shantung suit she'd decided to wear.

The doorbell rang promptly at eight, and after pausing to adjust a black net veil over her superbly shaded features, hurried down to the street.

Owen was positively resplendent in a vested blue suit that hugged the long lines of his body. The white streak in his long, swept-back black hair emphasized his smooth, dark skin and angled brows. He looked quite exotic, leaning casually against the silver-gray Rolls, like some exiled Russian prince who survived on wit, women, and the roulette wheel. When he saw her, the aristocratic features softened into a serene grin.

"Perfectly lovely and on time," he congratulated, opening the car door for her.

She lifted her veil and pecked at his cheek. "I must say you're muy elegante yourself, darling. Does your tailor do women's things?"

"Don't really know. Lily sent an old suit and some new measurements to Centanni, Sordi's key man in Rome. It was a surprise." The smile didn't waver, but the deep furrow that appeared between his canted green eyes hinted that the mention of Lily had disturbed his serenity.

Sybelle climbed into the front seat and tried to contain her curiosity. She reminded herself that Owen had a right to privacy and that she was about to attend a friend's funeral. Her efforts weren't enough to quell the raging tide of conjecture.

"Heard from Lily?" she blurted after a brief struggle.

The same furrow returned to haunt his brow, and she was immediately sorry she'd brought it up.

"Not since the flight."

Through her remorse she weighed the response. What did it mean? Not since Lily left, or not since she arrived? Talking to Owen was like swimming in seaweed; one picked up little patches here and there. For her own sake as well as his, she decided to switch to a more pleasant topic.

"Owen," she announced, "I've made up my mind about the money."

He seemed mildly startled. "What money?"

"The money it's going to take to fix up your house, of course, plus the cash for the funeral. I happen to have plenty of money, darling, and I don't intend to leave it to my relatives. So please don't be pig-headed. Isn't your work more important than some masculine ethic? Why wait for probate?"

"You'll probably keel over at a hundred and forty while making a speech," he observed glumly.

"All the more reason to take advantage of my offer. You do want your research continued after you, or must we all wait another ten thousand years?"

"There are the films," he protested, but Sybelle saw she'd hit home. "Are they enough?"

"No."

"Then let me help you. At least a little."

He nodded.

"We'll see, beautiful. Thanks for the confidence." Sybelle was relieved.

For Owen that nod was tantamount to a contract. Gloating over her small victory, she resolved to be very discreet for the rest of the day.

Predictably, the funeral proved to be exhausting as well as depressing. The absence of sunlight left the field to a bitter wind that whipped across the barren, undefended cemetery. There wasn't a tree or monument in sight. Just rows of low, flat stones, all looking quite dreary in a neat, military sort of way. The lack of protection allowed the sharp wind to slash with abandon at one's flanks, Sybelle noted ruefully as she helped Gladys walk, step by drugged step, to the side of the open grave.

She kept wishing she'd had the sense to bring her brown tweed, if not the red fur, and damn the conventions. The whole thing was absolutely surreal anyway. There was Pucci in a cashmere coat, standing with his thug pallbearers, clutching a pearl-gray Borsalino to his breast with an expression of saintly empathy. And the shaggy-haired, superreformed rabbi, in a denim suit, going on about "transitional behaviorism." When he got to something called "intertribal communication," she stopped listening entirely and turned her attention to the dozen-odd mourners assembled by the graveside. Only two were obviously gay. Most were well-pressed young men with gold pinkie rings and Fendi portfolios who kept glancing discreetly at their watches, eyes avoiding the sight of Gladys, propped up between Owen and her doctor. The poor thing was so full of tranquilizers she couldn't stand without help. Her clothes looked like they'd been hastily draped on her body by someone else, and her mouth dangled open like that of a discarded puppet.

The entire affair was a barbaric, meaningless ritual. She believed more than ever that the civilized solution was a short wake and quick cremation.

Biting her lip, she ignored Broken Nose's wink as he lowered the body-less coffin into its precisely cut grave. Then, without waiting for the first scoop of earth to be thrown after it, she turned abruptly on her heel and stalked back to the car.

She was still frozen when Owen returned, started the engine, and switched on the heater.

"It went off well, I think," he said slowly after a few minutes of silence.

She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders.

"I think it went off horribly, but I know what you mean. Gladys didn't realize anything. She could have been on a plane to California, for all she knew, poor dear. I've got to keep in close touch with her these next few weeks."

"She'll need it. Her doctor's still got her on intensive care."

"I suppose you'll be busy putting the house back together and replacing your equipment."

"That shouldn't take long."

Sybelle's sensitive ear heard something beyond the laconic words. A chill breath across the back of her neck disintegrated the warmth of the car.

"What else will you be doing, then?" she inquired hurriedly.

He glanced at her with admiration. "Could be. I'd like to ask a few questions. Arnold's friends, that sort of thing."

"An investigation, you mean."

"Not that formal, really. Maybe I can find something that can give me a lead."

"Us a lead, darling."

"Us a lead."

"A lead to what?"

He shrugged. "Whatever it was that broke the glass in my house."

A sudden apprehension drew her body forward, so that she was looking directly into his face. "I think we should leave it alone."

The upturned corners of his mouth suggested secret amusement, but his steely tone exposed the grim intensity behind his words. "Do you think it will leave Arnold alone?"

Sybelle sat back in her seat and stared morosely through the windshield. She didn't even want to think about the answer to that question.

Chapter 7

Christian was enjoying himself.

He leaned back in his Eames patio chair and splashed some Vichy water into a glass of iced Cinzano as he watched the heated play on his private tennis court.

It was a good morning for a match. Warmer now that it was nearing noon, but the early-morning hours had been ideally crisp. He'd played three sets before breakfast, and the cold, steady wind blowing across the bay had refreshed his game. He'd won easily, but of course his opponent had been under considerable pressure. Christian stirred the crimson liquid in his glass pensively, as the game continued.

Wehrner acted foolishly; that was obvious to everyone. Not only had he disobeyed orders, he'd failed in his self-appointed mission. The real question, however, was whether he'd displayed the bumbling fervor of a zealot, or merely a psychotic need for attention. But whatever the reason, it came to the same thing. The attempt to eliminate Orient had exposed them to unnecessary risk and couldn't be tolerated. Especially now, when they were so close to the divine hour.

To be sure, the boy was young, and stealing the body from the funeral home may have excited him. Still, his reaction was disturbing, given his background. Wehrner had been trained from birth to follow orders implicitly.

Christian regarded the shards of ice floating in his glass and wondered; was it a symbolic and very stupid gesture of loyalty, or a sign of weakness within the trinity?

The possibilities of the answer evaporated as Wehrner's game exploded. Moving cross-court like a hungry cheetah, the lanky youth lashed a backhand to the far corner, then powered Henry's stabbing half-lob to the opposite corner for match point. The boy's face was blank as he hurdled the net and embraced his brother.

"Well done!" Christian called out, raising his glass.

A relieved grin crossed Wehrner's sweat-greased face.

"Thank you, sir," he managed between deep gulping breaths.

He stripped off his shirt and rubbed his hairless, smooth-muscled chest with a towel. Henry took another towel and dabbed Wehrner's back.

Christian watched them, idly considering the chance that Henry had held back to lessen his young brother's punishment. It mattered little, he reminded himself; in a short time he'd know the answers to all his questions. And even more. Later, as the limousine sped silently toward the city, Christian noted with satisfaction that Wehrner's palm was blistered. It would give the boy something to think about during the match.

Henry looked extremely worried, as well he should. Wehrner had already played six hard sets of tennis that morning, and was on his way to the final match of the World Amateur Indoor Cup. And he knew, his performance would be weighed very carefully. In fact, it would determine the penalty for his transgression.

Christian even allowed Henry to turn the spacious rear area of the custom Mercedes into a first-aid station, with his foul-smelling liniments and messy tape, but when they reached the Garden, he told Henry to accompany him upstairs, leaving Wehrner alone to face the challenge.

They took the elevator to the private, glass-enclosed room overlooking the Garden floor. The color TV's and indirect lights were on; buffet table and bar stood ready to dispense their carefully selected bounties; and a phone, writing paper, cigarettes, binoculars, and champagne bucket were there beside the special black leather barber chair at the window.

While Christian gave his instructions, Henry wordlessly fixed a large plate of chicken slices, cheese, and orange salad, and poured a single glass of champagne. He placed the plate and glass on the high ebony table beside the barber chair, before pouring a soft drink for himself.

Before Christian had finished his champagne, the guests began swarming in. The chair's elevation gave him a better angle on the playing floor and on the games taking place in the room itself. The guests were the usual assortment for an event of this type: a few professional tennis players; Clyde Howard, the TV sports commentator, with his current pugilistic discovery in tow; Bobbie Joy Leroy, the AFL's rookie of the year, being chatted up by Hobey Stanford III, old-time yachting enthusiast and nouveau film producer; Hill Francis, the playwright, with a couple of chorus types; Fred Leight, the elderly but unwise Wall Street tycoon, losing his head over an obviously worthless young fashion model.

Christian greeted them all cordially as they came past to pay their respects and wish Wehrner well. There were others who drifted in before the match began. Most he knew; some he didn't. But he did know that everyone there had certain things in common. Each of them was successful, white, male, and homosexual.

As his guests enjoyed themselves, Christian conducted business as usual: Fred Leight mentioned a merger and he called his broker immediately; then Hill's agent came around with an interesting proposal, and Christian wrote him a check. All the while, he watched Henry closely as he circulated through the crowd making sure everyone was comfortable.

Another annoying facet of Wehrner's deviation was the possibility that his brother also was tainted. He saw Henry stop and engage Clyde Howard in conversation. The powerful sports reporter nodded conspiratorially, trying to keep his lecherous face devoid of expression while the boy fed him the story Christian had instructed him to leak.

It wasn't long afterward that Howard slipped away, leaving his boxer to the wiles of Hobey, who had a weakness for muscular types.

Christian watched it all with the detached amusement of someone seeing a movie for the second time. He knew exactly what would happen next. In a few minutes, after Howard passed on his latest tidbit, Gil Wildestein would come sniffing around for the carrion.

A roar from the arena signaled the end of the consolation match. Conversation inside the private room became a shade muted as the time for Wehrner's match grew near. Then the door opened, and Wildestein entered.

He flashed Christian his deceptively sleepy grin and paused to murmur confidentially to Henry, throwing a well-tailored arm around his shoulders.

Gil was very good. He'd taken the express shuttle from Seventh Avenue to Hollywood and at thirty-two owned most of Paragon Studios, a piece of the Bank of America, and half of a hotel casino in Tahoe. There was talk of Swiss interests, and rumors of huge gold deposits in Beirut, fees earned for supplying special arms to both El Fatah and Israel. There were even whispers of a potentially messy affair that was squelched by the convenient suicide of a well-known film actor. All in all, an interesting young man. A rare and refreshing experience in a world of sheep. Like all Jews, however, Wildestein's intelligence had one glaring flaw. His uncontrolled passion for Wehrner.

When the players came on court, Christian picked up his binoculars and focused the powerful lenses on Wehrner. The boy was walking slowly, head down, ignoring the cheers and implorations for autographs from the crowd.

"Think he can take the African?"

Christian continued watching through the glasses. "Hard to say, Gil. You know how these young boys are. First big tournament, TV, press -- anything could happen."

"You don't think he's going to win, then."

Christian put the glasses down. "That's why we're here, isn't it? To find out."

Wildestein replied with a cool shrug. "Could be your boy's not ready," he agreed, his black birdlike eyes meeting Christian's stare.

Very few men had the courage to challenge his eyes, Christian noted with satisfaction; a worthy opponent at last. "Wehrner's ready," he said flatly.

"The African is older and stronger. But I'm sure" -- Gil lifted his glass -- "your boy is better trained."

Christian admired the attempt to involve his ego with Wehrner's performance.

"The boy's a bit undisciplined." He smiled. "So very young."

There was a break in their conversation as the African got ready to serve. As if following some unspoken protocol, most of the guests herded around the color TV. The only people at the window were Christian, Wildestein, and Henry.

Wehrner played well for two games, then began to sag. By the end of the fourth, he was on his way to giving up the set.

Wildestein allowed himself to gloat.

"Guess you were right," he admitted.

"Right about what, Gil?" Having decided to accept the bait, Christian let a hint of annoyance ease through the question.

"The boy's having trouble adjusting. Too immature, as you said."

"He's mature enough for the African."

"I don't think so, Christian," he soothed, as if explaining the complexities of reality to a testy teen-ager. "Not this year."

"He'll adjust," Christian snapped, as the African slammed one past a flat-footed Wehrner.

"Want to bet?" Wildestein's smile did little to disguise a sneer of disbelief.

"How much?"

Gil didn't bother to waste words. "His contract if he loses."

"And if he wins?"

"One hundred thousand."

"How much will you pay for his contract if he loses?"

"Two hundred thousand."

Christian sent Henry for another bottle of champagne and lit his first cigarette of the day.

"A lot of money for a player who's never won a major," he considered aloud.

"Is it a bet?"

He shook his head. "Can't let you do it, Gil."

The sneer became an innocently puzzled grin. "Straighten me out, Christian. I don't understand."

"Wehrner's too headstrong. Undisciplined, as I said. And very hard to handle. He's liable to lose the match, go into some bar, have a fight, and break his wrist. I couldn't let you buy such a risky boy. I'd be taking unfair advantage of you."

Christian kept his eyes on the court below, but he could feel Wildestein's temperature rising at the prospect of caring for Wehrner's gladiator bruises.

"I'm all grown up. I think I can handle him. Perhaps he needs another kind of guidance. You've got to give these kids a little room. They're high-spirited. Maybe you work him too hard," Gil added, referring to the information Henry had leaked. "Could be he's just overtrained."

Christian snuffed out his cigarette. "Of course, if Wehrner wins, his contract would be worth much more. At least a half-million, wouldn't you say?"

Wildestein's face went blank as the conversation drifted into uncharted waters. "What are you getting at?"

There was a roar from the crowd below as the African broke Wehrner's service. The guests in the room restrained themselves, but the background buzz quickened.

"He's a reckless boy," Christian said slowly. "But if he wins, you can have him. I don't want the responsibility anymore. But he only walks out of my stable as a winner. You understand, of course."

A crafty half-smile crossed Gil's face. "And if he loses?"

"Fifty thousand."

He could hardly contain his surprise and pleasure.

"How about terms? Table stakes, here and now?" he suggested quickly.

Christian nodded. "I'll call my lawyer and have him transferee papers. You call your people and have the cash delivered to his office tonight."

"A half-mil, in cash?"

"I believe you said table stakes."

Wildestein hesitated.

Christian picked up the binoculars and studied the action on the floor. He could see that Wehrner had mentally given up and was coasting until the second set.

"What about the fifty thousand?" Wildestein stalled.

"My lawyer has it." Christian was intent on the game. He knew that Gil was having difficulty finding the kicker in the bet. He'd been drooling for Wehrner's supple body for over a year, and this was as close as Christian had let him come. Right now he was running the equation through his hyperactive computer brain and coming up with nothing but profit. If he lost, he owned Wehrner, and if he won, he was up fifty thousand. Unfortunately, Gil's primitive model was programmed to calculate gold instead of energy, and powered by his testicles. What he couldn't know was that the bet was merely a form of insurance. A way of protecting an investment.

Wildestein felt he had the edge. He'd heard about the extra morning drill before the match, and Wehrner's blistered palm. Henry had seen to that. Most likely, Gil had one of his own employees validate the information. So how could he lose?

Wehrner pushed a lucky forehand past the African, bringing an ill-deserved murmur from the guests around the TV screen.

Wildestein made up his mind. "All right, the cash will be there."

Christian inserted a speed-dial card into his phone. After instructing his lawyer, he handed Wildestein the receiver. Gil took it and moved around to the other side of the table, making an elaborate show of concealing the number he was calling. To Christian it was both amusing and disappointing. He'd hoped for more of a match. Some interesting counterproposal, or even an outright threat. He'd been overoptimistic. Wildestein wasn't a rare species, after all. Just a ram among the sheep.

The African almost beat himself with a few clumsy mistakes, but finally it was his set.

"The African is stupid," Christian remarked through a casually suppressed yawn.

"Wehrner looks tired." Wildestein was standing at the window, hands clasped but restless behind his back. "Goddamnit, why work him so hard? His palm's giving him trouble."

"You've got marvelous eyesight," Christian complimented, lifting his glasses. "I can't see that well with these."

"It's obvious," he grunted lamely.

Wehrner came out mentally prepared for the second set. He served two straight aces and went on to take the first game. He broke the African's service in the second, and opened the third with another booming ace. The guests in the room began cheering every point. Wildestein stood silently at the window, fingering his immense emerald pinkie ring. Christian noted that his gull-like profile seemed at ease. Not at all concerned about the prospect of losing fifty thousand dollars and paying top dollar for an amateur.

The African stopped Wehrner's momentum, and came back to win the third game with a series of whiplash line returns, dampening the excitement around the TV, but heightening Christian's interest. He wondered how he'd be forced to judge Wehrner's transgression as he focused on the play of guilt and innocence below.

Wildestein, on the other hand, knew he couldn't leave the room uncompensated, and saw it as a contest of equal pleasures. He began to grin when Wehrner came out strong to break the African's service again, and called for champagne when the boy won the second set, making it clear which end of the bet he preferred.

The third set was grueling. Wehrner started smartly, but the African refused to give ground. At three games each Wehrner seemed used up, and Wildestein was visibly annoyed.

"He'd be carrying home the cup right now if he wasn't overtrained," he muttered bitterly. He caught his tone and tried to cover it with a girlish flip. "Really, Christian, it's not healthy to treat him so harshly."

Christian lit a second cigarette. The jury was still out on Wehrner, and the final ballot would be cast on the playing floor.

The boy was stubborn. When he was leading 5^4, the African's endurance wavered, leaving him exposed. What should have been the winning point became deuce, then Wehrner's advantage, and finally his game.

Wildestein roared with all the rest, slapping his thigh with adolescent glee. These Americans were arrested teen-agers, no matter what their station, Christian observed disdainfully. They preferred instant gratification to infinite satisfaction. But, of course, it was a mongrel culture. In critical need of the torch he carried in his mind like a marathon runner. The flame that would touch off the most fervid blaze of faith ever to purge mankind, and whose ashes would birth the Fourth Reich of the New Man.

Wehrner couldn't be restrained after clawing out the fifth game. He stalked the African relentlessly, circling the court with his body low to the ground, reflexes sniffing for every lapse of concentration, every weakness. And he found them. Toward the end, the air was choked with the regularity of the African's mistakes, and Wehrner had little trouble consuming him.

"Congratulations." Christian gave Gil a faint smile. "You've bought yourself a winner."

He was prepared for Wildestein's flushed sneer of triumph, but not for the open contempt in his reply. "Think you've gotten top dollar? Top peanuts. The boy's worth millions right now."

"I'm the one who said he'd win," Christian reminded softly. "Despite all those unkind remarks about my training methods. He wouldn't be in my stable if he wasn't a talent. But it takes discipline and dedication, and Wehrner's too temperamental."

Gil's sneer widened. "Sure, he's got spirit. But I predict the boy will be as docile as a flower... for me."

Christian shrugged, picked up the phone, and inserted the card punched with his lawyer's number into the slot.

"All right," he said after a brief conversation. "The money's been delivered. Formal papers will be given to your messenger."

He reached for a pad of writing paper. "I'll give you a handwritten receipt now. When do you want him?"

The lust was oozing from Wildestein's beady eyes, but, to his credit, he restrained himself.

"Tell him to take the weekend off and raise hell," he said, folding the receipt carefully. "He can stop by my office on Monday to pick up his check."

"Check?"

"Expense money. Or don't you believe in that?"

Christian raised his glass and smiled. "I give my players nothing but myself."

When Wildestein went over to crow about his purchase to Clyde Howard and the others, Christian signaled Henry and left the party to the spectators. For him there was still one more game to play.

He gave Henry his instructions in the elevator, watching closely as the boy's eyes registered surprise, confusion, fear, and then nothing, the emotions clicking like railroad cars flashing past an empty station. His features remained impassive through the briefing, however, and there was still a question in Christian's mind when they reached the street floor. Instead of reassuring himself, he let the doubt remain. Its existence whetted his appetite sharper than any drug he'd yet sampled.

Wehrner was subdued during the ride home. He slumped in a corner of the car, eyes half-closed and head resting against his brother's shoulder as he waited for Christian's reaction.

He let him wait. When they arrived, Christian retired to his quarters without comment or sign of his decision. After a long shower he meditated on what had to be done over the next few hours and coming months. His entire life had been groomed for this level.

He was the integral element in the ritual that had begun even before the end of the Second World War. In 1944 he was already in South America, being educated by the most powerful intellectual force of the Reich -- Von Hausoff -- the man who founded the original mystical cell of the SS and whose theories formed the cornerstone of Nazi philosophy.

Von Hausoff had personally prepared him to be high priest of the Fourth Reich and had made him a sacred promise. Tonight he'd know if the promise could be kept.

When his mind was clear, Christian went to the closet to choose a robe. He stood in front of the mirror, a black terry and a crimson shantung draped over his rippling arms. Both colors suited his flawlessly white skin, but he decided that the red silk suited the festive nature of the evening.

Before donning the robe, he regarded the extraordinary muscular development of his alabaster torso. The New Man was a perfect specimen, he noted with profound pride -- sound of mind, body, and soul. A perfect vessel to be fulfilled by the trinity.

After dressing, he went to the phone, dialed for Wehrner, and asked him to bring a cold bottle of Dom Perignon to his rooms.

The boy was still unsure when he came with the wine. Christian felt it was time to put him at ease. He did deserve a reward for his willingness to endure and prove his loyalty. And of course for earning such a handsome stud fee.

"Join me," he said gently. "You can drink from my glass."

Wehrner's smile was tentative as he sat down next to him on the couch.

Christian filled his glass.

"To your victory," he congratulated. He drank, refilled the glass, and passed it to Wehrner.

The pause before the boy answered was just long enough to be charming. "To... the New Man." His wide blue eyes were icily fervent as he returned the toast, and gleaming warm after drinking the wine.

Christian leaned closer. "Plans have been made for you. You've become valuable property."

Wehrner brushed back a lock of cornsilk hair from his forehead. "If it pleases the trinity, then I'm proud."

"It's been a long time since we've spoken privately like this," Christian mused, rubbing the boy's shoulder. "Perhaps my work keeps us too far apart. But soon our master mission will be accomplished, and all time will be ours."

"I can be patient, sir," Wehrner sighed, slyly inserting a familiar sexual emphasis on the title of respect.

Christian massaged his neck.

"You must be very tired," he whispered, unbuttoning Wehrner's shirt and stroking the boy's smooth chest. "I'm not very tired... sir."

"Very well, then" -- Christian let his robe fall open and gently pulled Wehrner to him -- "you have your orders... don't you?..."

Afterward, as the boy dozed against his chest like a golden cat, Christian contemplated the uncertainties of the next few hours. It was time to exert stress on the variables in Von Hausoff's cosmic equation.

He tenderly moved Wehrner's head from his shoulder to a nearby pillow, sat up, and reached for the phone. In a few moments Henry knocked and came in with a tray.

Christian nudged Wehrner awake.

"Your brother is here to celebrate your elevation," he whispered. "And your new mission."

The boy rubbed his eyes and smiled broadly.

"Must be something special," he said, then waited for Christian to announce the details.

"First, we'll drink a true Aryan toast. With aquavit."

Christian watched as Henry served Wehrner, then took a glass from the tray and handed it to him. He took his time, savoring the tension. It was a bit like Russian roulette. Perhaps Henry had decided that blood was thicker than obedience. The boy had been at his service since birth, but only now would he know if he'd shaped Henry's will or destroyed the trinity.

"To the trinity of the Broken Cross."

Both youths stiffened at the mention of the forbidden name. Christian drained his glass in one swallow and waited. After a heartbeat's hesitation they did the same: "Well done."

He smiled.

"Won't you tell us about that special something?" Wehrner inquired, emboldened by a second drink and the still-warm memory of their intimacy.

"Of course..." Christian began cheerfully. He had no chance to complete his explanation.

Wehrner clutched his belly and jackknifed to the floor. He rocked his body, knees jammed against his chest, his mouth slowly opening and closing. Then he rolled over on his side and glared at Christian, eyes brimming with reproach and confusion, like those of a cheated child.

"Why...?" he managed to squeeze out before the paralysis swallowed his lungs.

Christian knelt down beside him. "Because you won," he said gently. "A man burdened with guilt couldn't have. Not after being so thoroughly exhausted. But you weren't so burdened, were you? You wanted only to win. For yourself. To prove yourself. But instead, you proved your ambition is stronger than your body. Much too strong for a life of selfless dedication to the trinity."

Later, Henry approximated it at three minutes flat, but his emotional involvement skewed his accuracy.

Christian, fortunately, had no such delusions, and remembered to consult his watch. Exactly 147 seconds elapsed before the nerve solvent completed its work. He wondered if he should refresh Henry's indoctrination. Only a primitive vestige of sentiment could have blocked him from scientifically recording the precise time it took his brother to die.

Still, his loyalty had been a key factor, Christian observed with satisfaction, as he dressed Wehrner's body. The boy had obeyed orders and executed the heretic. He would've preferred to pay the fifty thousand of course, but Wildestein had been more than willing to underwrite the steep price of Wehrner's fate.

Even though the cell was diminished, Henry's act had strengthened the bond. He sighed and studied Wehrner's pale, peaceful face. And then, even death was a kinder punishment than being owned by a Jew.

When he was ready, they carried Wehrner to the garage and propped him up in the passenger seat of his own Masarati.

"Make it look good," Christian reminded. "You'll have to walk back. I trust you found a good location?"

"Ideal." Henry swung behind the wheel of the car and pulled the door shut. "There's some wine and a fifth of bourbon in the back. Along with a small firebomb. There won't be any trouble with an autopsy. I assure you... sir."

Christian smiled at the display of affection.

"Be back well before midnight," he said softly. "I want you to prepare yourself very carefully for tonight's ritual... and afterward."

At exactly seven that evening, as Christian prostrated himself before the skull, holding the iron sword of Schamballah in his left hand, and the golden abacus of Agarthi in his right, he felt a new current of energy pulsing between his outstretched arms.

The magnetic surge shook through his muscles, and its power lifted his body from the floor as he whispered the oath.

"I consecrate my entire being to the trinity of the Broken Cross, supreme apex of the pyramidal brotherhood of warrior monks, serving the will of the sacred skull."

He crawled to his knees, propped the sword's handle against the floor, and leaned forward until the balance of his weight rested on the point of the sword, digging into his chest.

"I will kill every enemy of Schamballah, and destroy all in conflict with the pure truths of Agarthi. I will believe, obey, fight, and die to perpetuate the infinite dominion of Thule, Holy of Holies. This is my only law -- above all others. Should I prove unworthy of service to the trinity, or reveal its canons. I vow to cease my physical existence and submit my immortal spirit to the judgment of the sacred skull of Thule."

The air in the small room became hot and scarce, as if being devoured by an invisible sun. Beads of sweat broke out everywhere on his naked, trembling body, while he waited for a sign.

As he watched, the clear, crystal skull darkened, until it seemed like a luminous chunk of black jade, and a pale blue aura appeared around the high, smooth dome.

Christian moved back, letting the sword fall harmlessly to the floor. He took a deep breath as a fresh gust of wind blew through the room, extinguishing the skull's flickering halo. He felt reborn, as he always did after repeating the mystical blood oath of the death's-head SS. Within a few hours Henry would prepare the shrine for the primary rite. Now, however, it was time to make ready for the task ahead, and the promise Von Hausoff had given him.

He replaced the sword in the silver sheath and packed the abacus in its pouch of human skin before leaving the room.

It amused him to be here in the land of the conqueror, Christian gloated, as he padded through the narrow passageway connecting the underground temple room to his bedroom. It was fitting that the spark that would engulf the entire world in purifying flame should be struck in America, land of the mongrel Bolsheviks. Soon they'd understand that their vaunted technology couldn't protect them from the fiery apocalypse of the New Man.

The stupid barbarians never once questioned the so-called atrocities of the defeated grand masters of National Socialism. The wise apes of Nuremburg were more interested in exacting their pound of flesh than examining the motives behind three million human sacrifices. Even SS Colonel Wolfram Sievers was allowed to say his death prayers and perform the invocation to Schamballah before going to the gallows. Heilsher was allowed to assist him.

Fredrick Heilsher, who founded the Annenerbe, the Society for the Study of Ancestral Heritages, for whom Sievers conducted his esoteric experiments in his slave camps. The fools never questioned why Sievers required human skulls or practiced vivisection. They conveniently executed him instead, after allowing him to dedicate himself as sacrifice in a final rite. How could they know then that with his death Sievers had ensured the recovery of the Fatherland?

Christian smiled to himself as he twirled the dial on the lock to his safe. Now the world had forgotten Nuremburg, and the German mark was one of the strongest currencies in the world markets. A real victory.

He carefully placed the sword and abacus, the symbols of his rank, in the safe. Only Von Hausoff and the master of Schamballah himself were above him. Together their beings formed the living trinity of the Broken Cross.

Christian closed the door, spun the dial, then pulled the rows of pulled bookshelves down over the safe. Then he took a tungsten-steel pin from the pocket of his robe and inserted it into a small hole at the side of the bookshelf. The one small pin secured the entire wall of shelves so that they were completely immobile. A thief would have to locate the safe, then saw through two steel shelves lined with hard wood before attempting to crack it.

One small pin, he mused, as he went to the bathroom, slipped off his robe, and stepped into the shower. So it was with the elite SS cadre, the death's-head unit.

The Waffen SS had been the fodder, of course. It was the death's-head SS -- the Totenkopiverbaende -- who formed the wedge protecting the mystical flame of Thule. And it was he, Christian, the New Man, who was high priest of the sacred skull. He broke into a half-chanting, religious marching song recalled from his childhood as he washed. It was really so typically stupid, he exulted, soaping himself; the wise conquerors had never once questioned the real significance of the skull emblem on the uniforms of the elite SS. In their primitive innocence they assumed it meant "Beware."

After cleansing thoroughly, he oiled and perfumed his body in accordance with the requirements of the rite he was about to perform. Then he rolled back the thick black rug, exposing an expanse of white marble.

Using a piece of charcoal, a string, and a T square, he drew a large circle, then inscribed a smaller circle within, and marked off a perfect triangle on the circumference of the smaller circle.

In the outer ring formed by the two circles, he painstakingly wrote the words of power: Seraf, Fur, Lah, Tarshis, Tali Ahad, Chervb, Ar, and the great key which cannot be spoken, Ihvh. When the pentacle was complete, he put his tools aside and contemplated his work.

It was the first pentacle of the sun, more ancient than the books of Solomon, to whom it was commonly attributed. The sign of power was one of the few remnants of the First Age, when four moons circled the steaming earth and men were gods.

The pentacle had to be perfect in mathematics and execution, or the rite would fail.

The key to his protection during the invocation would be in this room, not the temple.

Christian lay in the center of the circle, head covering one point of the triangle and his feet the other two. Then he closed his eyes and fixed a mental image of a blazing skull sun rising over the horizon of his consciousness, and willed his physical body to sleep.

When he awoke again, his thoughts were incandescently clear, as if the skull's blinding radiance had indelibly branded his mind with its brilliant presence.

He dressed slowly, making sure that each article of uniform from the knee-high jackboots to the iron bracelet around his wrist and skull insignia on the breast of his black leather jumpsuit, was perfectly placed, before adjusting a thick ring on the middle finger of his left hand.

The ring was woven of separate strands of gold, silver, and iron. Each strand formed one point of a tripod that held a triangular black stone in its grip.

"I offer this rite to thee, Agarthi, inviolable citadel of Thule, in the name of Gog and Magog, who are greater than all spirits," he murmured, gazing intently at the black stone.

The triangular meteorite chip had been passed from hand to hand since the apocalypse of the First Age and was older by a hundred thousand years than the Holy Stone at Mecca.

When he'd completed the blessing, he pressed the button that activated the sliding panel, and strode to the temple room, the sharp echoes of his booted footsteps booming like martial drums in the dim underground passage.

Henry was in uniform, standing at attention next to the flaming urn when Christian entered.

The preparations were complete. The boy had drawn the concentric circles and triangle of the sun pentacle on the tiled floor beneath the crystal skull's high black altar. Of course, the words of power had been omitted from the pentacle. Henry didn't know them. Only the New Man was worthy of having every link in the formula. The real machinery of the ritual was inscribed on the floor of the bedroom, beyond the grasp of an inferior.

A large book, bound in human skin, had been placed within the triangle, and resting on the book was an iron trowel with a silver handle. To the left of the pentagram, on a low metal table, was the mottled body they'd taken from the funeral home.

On the corpse's forehead was the symbol of the Broken Cross, painted with red dye.

Christian checked his pocket watch, waiting until it was precisely five minutes to midnight, before placing the watch on the floor of the passageway outside the room and then bolting himself inside.

He stepped into the center of the pentagram, making sure that both feet were within the protection of the inner circle. At his signal, Henry joined him.

The boy went to his right side, knelt down, and picked up the volume, holding it up with both hands so that it served as a tray for the trowel on its face.

Christian lifted his hands and began the prayer.

"I invoke the powerful name Asmoday for this undertaking," he intoned. Facing the skull, he lifted his hands higher and concentrated on the shimmering depths of its eyeless sockets.

"I further call upon the holy and terrible name of Bon to aid me in my works tonight, and the names of the most righteous Slyt and Hylpt, the true beginning and end."

The torpid air began to crackle with invisible energy. Christian lowered his hands and eyes. It was critical that the climax of the rite coincide with the aspect of the new moon and the angle of Jupiter. His calculations made it at 00:06 hours, but he had to keep perfect time, using nothing except the pulse of his own body.

After a moment's pause he again lifted his eyes to the altar, and began chanting softly.

"By Garuda, Re, and Chac... Ornias, Tephros, and Shamash..." As he went on, the transparent brilliance of the skull became alive with humming bands of color. "... Utu, Thyphon, and Tiwaz. I command thee to come forth by the names which are contained in the letters V, C, and X, and the number one-zero-one..."

Lifting his hands slightly, he felt the charged air swirling around his fingertips, as if each digit was generating a separate current of magnetic energy. The skull's rainbow transparency became clouded with a thick silvery substance, and its wide, smooth dome began to radiate a pale green aura.

"I, Christian Orgaz... New Man of the Fourth Reich, high priest of the Broken Cross, order the royal presence of the Marquis Gamygyn, esteemed keeper of the sacred science and fearful messenger to the regions of the dead."

When he took the trowel in his hands, the metallic cloud within the skull solidified, so that it appeared to be made of pure white silver, and the aura became a flashing storm of emerald lightning. Lifting the trowel in both hands, Christian carved the sign of the Broken Cross in the air.

"I bind thee to me by the powerful names Gali, Enga, Habdanum, Ingodum, Obu, and Shapshu. Come forth and make your presence known, by the most holy and powerful name Abaal, the first prince," he called out sharply, his speeding voice raising the momentum of magnetic energy whirling through the small room.

The flames in the urn dimmed, then went out.

In that dark second, he could see the altar, illuminated by the radiant green corona shooting forth from the cold white skull. Then the urn exploded with flame, and he felt the time beating nearer. He turned slowly, placed the trowel on the crudely stitched line on the dead boy's belly, and pressed down firmly.

When the iron made contact with dead skin, the silver handle went cold, then began vibrating with warmth as he spoke, until it became uncomfortably hot against his palm.

"I summon forth the sacrifice, marked body, and spirit with the powerful sign of the Broken Cross, and enslaved beyond eternity to the will of the sacred skull of Thule. I call upon the royal presence of the Marquis Gamygyn to guide it forthwith to this place. I so order in the name of Agarthi, holy city of Thule, and under the protection of Rebaal," he chanted in a rising singsong, rocking back and forth within the circle as the raw force of the power in his hands shook through his arms and chest. "I order the slave brought forth and made to speak now!" At the command, the corpse's eyes opened.

A milky gray film covering the pupils couldn't veil the sparking presence beneath. As Christian watched, the pasty, swollen features drew up into a wrinkled grimace of terror.

Christian lifted his head to the altar and saw the skull, a blazing sun of ice, radiating thick green flames that writhed like a wig of serpents. Its flawlessly curved jaw parted slightly and emitted a low, agonized moan.

The wailing sang in his mind as it whined higher and formed a tormented supplication for release -- the single, tortured word"... please ..."

The song saturated Christian's heaving body with triumphant harmonics of unleashed power, flooding his heartbeat and rolling through his chest in unending waves of laughter....

Chapter 8

"Sorry I couldn't be more helpful," Philip Gentry gushed. "But do give me your number in case I think of something."

He flashed Orient an appreciative smile. "Maybe you can come around to my flat some evening for drinks and meet some friends."

"Friends of Arnold's?" Orient asked, handing him a card.

"Heavens no." Gentry tucked his tank top into his black leather jeans as he checked his reflection. "Arnold really wasn't social in the normal sense. Very unsettled. Weak relationships. Always cruising, if you know what I mean."

"I think so." Orient extended his hand. "Thanks for your time."

"No trouble. As you can see, skin doesn't move during these months," he explained, waving his free hand at the stacks of leather shirts, vests, jeans, and studded jackets informally arrayed in small plexiglass stairways running through the mirror-walled boutique.

"Let 'em sit there. I might just say the hell with it, close up, and go to Trinidad for a couple of weeks."

As Orient left the Philip Gentry Leather Experience, he wished that he, too, could close down and go somewhere with a hot sand beach and cool blue water, where he didn't have to drive from place to place against the clogged, grimy city traffic, following up the snarled threads of Arnold Weber's lives.

He'd already found at least three -- the rising young man in a large public-relations firm, the well-known face around the gay-bar circuit, and the sometime patron of the slightly kinky leather set.

His investigations were made somewhat easier by the fact that Arnold's fetish for neatness extended to his address book. Each name was entered in spare, careful print in almost exact alphabetical order. Earlier, flipping through the book, Orient had noted that he could spot the more recent entries by both the vividness of the ball-point ink and the virtue of their being out of sequence. After two weeks of checking off names he'd noted further that at least three-quarters of the new entries were names connected to leather cultists.

On that basis he decided to concentrate on new names and backtrack over the rest later. Certainly the sado-masochistic element was his strongest lead. Even though it was difficult to accept that Arnold's death was caused from overenthusiastic participation in an orgy, the fact that he'd been whipped and branded couldn't be discounted. Orient was still brooding over the possible significance of the L brand when he arrived home.

He took the elevator directly from the garage to the third floor, avoiding the studio and Sordi's inevitable request for a report. As soon as he entered the bedroom, he went to the writing desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the chart.

Drawn with black ink on the white pasteboard was a series of boxes containing the names of people already contacted, along with a brief description of their connection with Arnold and other pertinent facts. A network of lines connected the boxes according to their relationship to each other. Tedious, but it was beginning to show results. The levels of Arnold's life were becoming clearer. Using a Rapidograph, he added another box to the maze. After inserting Philip Gentry's name and description, he drew a line from there to a box containing the name of a leather bar. Gentry was the second person to connect to the bar. A rustle behind him stopped the line before it was finished.

"Owen. You are up here. I told Sordi I heard the elevator."

The sound of her voice set off a chain reaction of soft shocks from belly to brain, lifting him up from the chair. He turned, letting the pen fall to the carpet.

Lily was leaning against the doorway, a tentative smile parting her pink lips, her eyes glistening.

"Bad timing?" she asked softly.

Orient hesitated, searching for clever words, but the truth spilled out before he found them. "I was hoping you'd come back. I missed you."

He took a step, and she was in his arms, silken hair caressing his face and moist breath licking at his ear.

"Darling, my love," she crooned. "It's been so long, so very, very long."

Fragments of emotion and thought cascaded like scattered beads along the corridors of his mind, and he was barely conscious of Lily's urgent whispers as she pulled him down beside her. Suddenly his senses were flooded by the liquid smoothness of her skin, and he remembered. Lush golden breasts; dark, taut nipples; long, smoke-soft thighs; every tawny hollow of her body was familiar to his touch as his hands drank in her presence like parched earth absorbs rain.

When he entered her, the rain intensified to a steaming deluge that drenched his driving need. Her mewling cries beat against the roaring in his body, and for one suspended moment he knew the source of all the pulsing variations of her sex. Then a boiling ecstasy whirled them both to other places, and by the time the torrent subsided, the moment was already half-forgotten.

She lay curled against his chest as he held her with both arms, listening to her breathing and reveling in her nearness.

"I've been desolate without you," she sighed. "But I wanted to make sure you missed me, so I stayed an extra week. I'm sorry I made such a bloody scene when I left."

"You're back now," he said softly, stroking her hair.

"When I cooled down, I was miserable. I didn't want to call or telegraph. I thought I'd ride it out and see how I felt."

He continued to stroke her hair, inhaling the musky fragrance of her skin. Her amber eyes regarded him reproachfully. "Don't you want to know?"

"Know what?"

"What I decided. About us, I mean."

"Yes, I do," he whispered. "Very much."

She closed her eyes. "Figure it out for yourself."

"Well, you're here now. That's a very important decision right there."

"How about the future?"

"You're the Moon Lady. What do you see?"

"You'll have whatever you want."

"I want you."

She nestled closer, nuzzling his ear. "And I want you, Owen. I truly want to make us work. I've decided either to help you or to stay out of the way. Your work is more important than that phony social scene."

"Very understanding decision," he congratulated lazily.

"Yes. I've done some very serious thinking about it all."

"That's good. But your being here is even better."

"Are you hungry?" She yawned.

Before he could answer, she lifted her head and looked at him wide-eyed.

"I completely forgot." She rolled over and sat up in bed. "Your new house guest is waiting downstairs."

Orient accepted the announcement with reservation, but let the news settle before reacting. "Germaine?" he asked, relieved that no trace of tension broke through his tone.

"No. He went back to Amsterdam. I've brought Oliver back with me. Oliver Fish."

He rested his head on one hand, watching her brush her copper hair, quietly feasting on the long, supple curves of her body and honey-warm shades of her skin.

"Did he take part in the rite?"

Even though the question was casual, he somehow wished he hadn't mentioned it. He was sure when she answered.

"Yes, he did." She stopped and looked at him, head cocked to one side. "Do you mind, Owen?"

He smiled. "Is he a friend of yours?"

She nodded. "A very good friend."

"Then you'd better hurry. It's considered quite impolite to keep friends waiting in New York."

"Well, here, then," she chided, throwing his trousers at him. "In London it's considered beastly to greet guests without so much as a pair of knickers. Not that Oliver would mind. He's quite liberated that way."

A short time later, when they came down to the study, Orient understood what she'd meant.

Oliver Fish was standing with Sordi at the Moviola, a goblet of crushed strawberries and champagne in one hand, and holding an ivory swagger stick in the other. He was about fifty-five, wore a carefully waxed Kiplingesque moustache, and carried his tall, portly frame with the concerned stoop of the school-tie soldier. From there, however, his appearance soared to the baroque. Like some colonial officer who'd tuned in, and turned to divine elegance, his long, snowy hair was swept back to reveal a single earring, while his rounded torso was adorned with a purple velvet tunic upon which dangled a variety of necklaces, pendants, and amulets.

When they shook hands, Orient saw that Oliver's enthusiasm for jewelry was undiminished by the fact that he'd only five fingers. There were two and three rings on each, except for the smallest, which bore only a single gold band bearing a curious pyramid symbol.

"Wizard meeting you, Orient," he boomed, squinting his bright blue eyes. "Lily's told me marvelous things about your experiments."

Still gripping Orient's hand, he moved closer.

"Look here," he rumbled confidingly, "your man's told me what happened to your place. I don't want to impose if -- "

"You're welcome to stay for as long as you like," Orient interrupted. "But Sordi's not my man. He's a close friend and associate."

"What did happen to the house?" Lily demanded. "Why are the windows all boarded up?"

Orient tried to answer, but Oliver was already talking.

"They had some sort of table-raising, trying to contact dead spirits, that sort of thing, and something went off control. Quite a lark for them," he added, as if Orient and Sordi weren't there.

"Quite a lark," Orient agreed, folding his arms.

"If I'd known you were having a seance, I would have come sooner," Lily said. "I didn't think you enjoyed that kind of experimentation. You've got to be very careful, you know. Who else was there?"

"Just Sybelle."

"That explains it. You've really got to meet her, Oliver, she's just the most amazing "

"No, no, no!" Fish repeated in exasperated tones.

Orient turned and saw him standing next to Sordi, pointing at the Moviola screen with his ivory stick. "You can't cut there; it's too slow. Don't wait for the complete sequence, cut it on the move. Here, let me show you."

Before he could, Sordi reached down and switched off the machine.

"We should all have something to eat," he suggested mildly. "I'm sure Lily's hungry after the flight."

"Starved. And I can't wait to have some of your special pasta."

Sordi's icy dignity melted. "How about some quick spaghetti a la marinara, and maybe a nice chicken al diavolo?"

Lily gave him a big kiss. "Perfect."

"When I was in Roma I learned a recipe for a rather interesting lasagna," Oliver began, walking with Sordi.

Sordi stopped and held up his hand. "Any friend of Lily's is fine with me. But not in my kitchen."

"Yes, of course," Oliver agreed cheerily. "When I'm recovered from this bloody jet lag, I'll show you how to prepare a really favolosa lasagna."

During dinner, Orient listened with growing impatience to Oliver's running instructions on the proper methods for cooking, eating, making films, conducting seances, and living with real, or Fish, style.

"It's not the money, or lack of it, is it?" he concluded, taking his brandy snifter between bejeweled fingers and passing it under his nose. "The knack's all in taking every facet of life as an art form. Clothes, conversation -- the whole bloody lot."

"But suppose your art form's surreal and the audience is classical?" Lily teased.

"That's the beauty of surrealism, m'dear. It's surreal everywhere," Fish explained genially. He looked around the table. "Well, now, dessert anyone?"

He removed one of his pendants, a small gold egg hanging from a silver chain, then unscrewed the top section from the seemingly solid egg and dumped its contents onto a plate. A small mound of white powder glistened on the china.

"Ah, Marquesa Cocaine," Oliver beamed as he took a short gold tube from the sleeve pocket on his tunic. "Frugal dalliance with her eases the digestion, brightens the mind, invites delightful conversation, and lengthens life."

Pressing one nostril closed, he put the tube to the other, bent over the plate, and loudly sniffed some of the powder. Reversing nostrils, he repeated the process, and then, still snuffling, pushed the plate to Orient.

"Of course, one can't carouse with abandon with the marquesa," he cautioned. "She has a tendency to squander one's resources."

"So I've noticed." Orient smiled as he passed the plate to Sordi. "Thanks anyway, but I use something like that only for a specific purpose."

"Pasadena." Sordi passed the plate to Lily, then helped himself to another dash of brandy. "I'm a food-and-wine man."

"Not up to it, eh?" Fish winked at Orient. "Of course, that isn't tobacco in those cigarettes of yours, is it?"

He reached over and plucked Orient's open case from the table. "Smells more like cannabis."

"It is. But I think there's a distinction to be made between an organic herb and a chemical. I don't consider cannabis a drug on the same level as cocaine. One gives, the other takes." He lifted his hand. "Please help yourself. In my experience, the effects are quite compatible."

"I guess you're one for chewing the flaming coca leaves, then, eh?" Fish murmured, turning the silver case over in his hand. "I believe I will have one of these at that. We tantrists believe that wisdom is achieved by the satisfaction of every desire."

"Don't despair, Oliver, I'll have a bit of your Stardust," Lily decided, somewhat to Orient's regret.

She looked at him and smiled. "To celebrate my homecoming, and your meeting Oliver."

The candle flames sent sheets of copper light across her long hair as she bent over the plate.

"This is a curious design, isn't it?" Fish remarked, hefting the cigarette case thoughtfully. "Tibetan meditation mandala."

"That's right."

"Yes. Lily mentioned you'd been in Tibet for a bit."

"Years ago. Long before the Chinese invasion. Have you been there?"

"Oh, yes. Lhasa, Lhari, Heiho. It was near Lhari that I saw something like this particular mandala." He struck a match. "I was looking for an old codger named Ku. Holy man there was a lot of talk about. Ever hear of him?"

"No," Orient lied. "I was just doing some touring."

"Did you find him?"

Fish leaned back and blew a reflective smoke ring toward the ceiling.

"As a matter of fact, no. But it was while tramping about trying to get a line on Ku, and freezing my bun doing it, that I chanced on another chap. Frightfully marvelous man called Milara. Could control his body temperature. The art of hyperpyrexia, you know. Wonderful. Always wore a light cotton robe, even in the starkest cold. Milara's the one who initiated me into the tantric lodge."

"Lamaistic lodge?" Orient inquired.

Oliver squinted at the burning tip of his cigarette. "No. Something quite different. This cigarette is superbly rolled, old dear. And the contents exquisite. Yucatan?"

"Colombian." Orient had another question, but Fish's attention was distracted by Sordi's conversation with Lily.

"How good is this tantric-yoga business?" he was asking her quietly.

"Good?" Fish blustered. "Why, man, I met Milara forty-eight years ago, when I was thirty-one."

For a fraction of a second Sordi's face lost its skeptical frown.

"You certainly are in good shape," he agreed. He turned to Orient. "How come you haven't done any work on this stuff, doctor?"

The question brought on a surge of dismay. Certainly it was a valid one. He knew the benefits of the tantric path. But he also knew it was in direct conflict with the teachings that gave him control of telepathy. The teachings of the Master Ku. He hesitated, trying to find a reasonable answer. Lily saved him.

"Owen's real and only passion is his research in telepathic communication. He taught me, in fact. Of course, I can do it only with him. Do you think that's some sort of chauvinistic ploy?"

"No doubt about it." Fish winked largely at Orient for the second time that evening. "Lovely woman like you. You can tell Owen's the strong, powerful type. But look here, I'm simply fascinated by telepathy. Never seen it done here in the West. Heard of cases here and there, but never anything that made sense. Some kind of knack, is it?"

Orient stubbed out his cigarette.

"No knack. That's the whole point. Through the use of special meditative and yogic techniques, one can reach a receptive level and, receive impressions. These methods follow strictly natural laws. My work's really just a matter of organizing a new kind of science."

"How about sending messages, eh? I expect that's the trick. Tell me about that."

Orient's smile covered his growing reluctance to explain his experiments to Fish. The Englishman had asked a sharp question. The second and third stages of the telepathic technique were known only to two others besides himself. Used by the wrong personality, the sending technique could be extremely dangerous.

"There's a way of reaching deep meditation that awakens dormant mental faculties," he said. "Takes a great deal of work."

"Something more than work, I'll wager." Fish beamed, sweeping his hand back to indicate the rest of the large studio. "All this filmmaking is about your special techniques, then. Favoloso. I'd like to see some of the footage."

"Glad to show you. Sordi's cutting the latest one now, as you've seen. He's co-director on this one."

Sordi's head swiveled. "I am?"

"You're completing the final cut..."

"According to your outline," Sordi protested.

"... not to mention all the principal photography," Orient finished. "So the credit stays."

Lily lifted her glass.

"To the newest infant terrible of the glorious cinema," she toasted, making it official.

Orient said little during the rest of the evening, but watched Oliver very carefully.

The extravagant Englishman covered an enormously incisive intelligence with his extroverted behavior. Only two men had ever spoken the name of his first master -- Count Germaine, and now, Fish. Both men he trusted little. And both involved with Lily in the tantric rite.

Germaine, of course, was a full adept, but his position didn't preclude misuse of power. While Fish had been unusually evasive about the allegiance of Milara's lodge. Orient knew that some Tibetan orders were followers of the left-hand way, the negative path. It was also interesting that Oliver had sought Ku unsuccessfully.

It had been Ku himself who'd told Orient that the master does not select, but recognizes, his students. And it had been Ku who'd given him the silver cigarette case with its unique mandala when he was ready to leave the holy mountain.

At one time, Germaine had also sought Ku, then discovered the tantric path instead. Very possibly the count was initiating Lily into Milara's lodge. Orient drummed his fingers on the table and wondered if Lily had any reasons beyond friendship for bringing Oliver with her.

He noticed that Fish had discreetly put his cocaine away, instead of referring to it through the evening, as most users would. A diplomatic gesture, perhaps, or was it that Fish had offered the drug as a means of gauging his host's limits?

Lily, however, was in high spirits, and unconcerned with anything except her conversations with Oliver and Sordi. Her smooth, golden skin was highlighted by a rosy flush of animation as she caught up on the New York and London gossip, talking in a kind of breezily elegant shorthand that made even the smallest event sound exciting. In that respect she and Oliver shared a private form of communication about a select world that had never been courted by, nor courted, Orient.

"What about this telepathy business, Owen?" Fish asked casually. "Think you'll have time to show me a bit?"

Orient reached across the table for his cigarette case. "Sordi can screen our first films for you. There are three completed. All short. They explain a good part of it."

"But what about the technique itself?" Fish persisted. "I've some experience with meditation myself, y'know. Perhaps a bit more than Lily... not that she's bad, mind you. Anyway, it could be kicky. I could reciprocate lessons." He glanced at Lily.

"Teach you some of our tantric methods. Might give your work a new slant. What do you say?"

Orient didn't know what to answer. Questions fluttered like caged birds in his brain. Had Lily invited Oliver to discover the second level of the technique, or was it a way of involving him in the tantric path? Certainly it was a difficult proposal to refuse. Especially since it touched a matter vital to his relationship with Lily.

"You must be smoking too much of that stuff, old dear," Fish prompted. "What do you think of our deal?"

"Our deal?"

"Of course. And Lily too. Can't leave the lovely birds out of something good, y'know. Even an old fool like me knows that. Come on, Owen, what's the trouble? Nothing wrong with a hundred-year youth, after all."

Orient felt pressured. Something about Fish's persistence sent wings of anxiety beating through his attempts to think.

"If you like," he said slowly, "I'll refresh Lily on the basic techniques tomorrow, and you can observe. We can go on from there."

"Heavenly, dear boy. I'll be looking forward to it then." Fish brushed back his white mane of hair with both hands. "Well, I must say that tonight's meal was better than anything I've ever had in Rome. Tell me, wasn't that an Ischia style of cuisine? Or has my palate been dulled by the frozen muck on the plane?"

Sordi's attitude toward Fish reversed abruptly at the mention of his birthplace.

"Ischia is right," he congratulated, making a circle with thumb and forefinger. "You know good food, that's for sure. Maybe tomorrow I'll make a special fritto misto for our gourmet guest."

Orient was slightly dismayed at the ease with which Oliver had managed to win over his friend. Now it would be even more difficult to avoid revealing the mechanics of the technique. Though Sordi was as yet unable to communicate telepathically, he'd picked up a great deal of information. Facts that could be used. Or misused.

He was relieved when Oliver announced his intention of retiring, and Sordi showed him to the guest room. When he was alone again with Lily, his misgivings deflated quickly, until there was left only the nagging doubt concerning the reason for Fish's visit. Even that was eventually squeezed away as they sat holding hands and talking softly. Lily's presence filled every corner of the room, making him acutely aware of how empty the past weeks had been without her.

"It's so good being here with you," she sighed, snatching the thought from his mind.

"It feels so right. I did miss you terribly, darling. It was quite a revealing experience," she added gently. "For me, anyway."

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened, really. I was just sort of wall-flowery all the time. There I was, back in the whirl, with people offering every kind of exotic notion and potion, and me unable to rouse the least enthusiasm. If it hadn't been for Oliver, it would have been hopeless."

"Known him a long time?" Orient ventured.

"A few years. Through Count Germaine, actually. Before I began practicing tantrism."

"Is he a medium of some kind?"

Lily shook her head, sending brazen ripples through her coppery hair. "He reads palms and tarot cards rather well, but he doesn't have any special psychic powers that I know of. He does have superb concentration, and a marvelous grasp of everything."

She leaned closer, eyes cat-narrow and gleaming deep orange as they searched his face.

"You do like him, Owen? I thought it would be fun having him here. You're sure you don't want me to diplomatically ease him over to a hotel? I could say that because of the repairs..."

"Not necessary. I'm very interested in getting to know him better," he replied truthfully. He'd already decided that the way to effectively find out Fish's true intentions was by observing him at close quarters.

She nuzzled his neck sleepily.

"I'm so glad," she whispered. "He isn't the most conventional type, but such a dear."

Her cool fingers guided his mouth to hers, and the fierce warmth of her tongue soothed his restless uncertainty.

Late the next morning Sordi knocked and left a breakfast tray outside the door, but it was well into afternoon before Orient and Lily came down to the study. After spending half the day making love, dozing, and talking nonsense with Lily, Orient felt at peace with the world. His serenity was momentarily dimmed when he saw Oliver sitting alone in the screening pit, watching one of the films documenting techniques used for achieving telepathy.

Remembering something, Orient excused himself.

He found Sordi in the kitchen fussing over a huge bowl of shrimp, octopus, and sardines.

"You slept well," he greeted, leathery face betraying nothing but concern for the seafood he was busily preparing. "Like old King Cole himself."

"I don't remember his being known for sleeping." Orient ignored the opening. "How's the film going?"

"Fast today. Oliver's been a big help. Showed me a couple of shortcuts."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oliver?"

Orient nodded. "I'd like you to tell him as little as possible about the technique. Especially the second and third stages."

"Don't know much about them, really," Sordi reminded reproachfully.

"Perhaps, but even though your psi factors aren't fully opened, you know what's involved."

Sordi shrugged. "Oliver's not a bad guy, just a little weird. But okay, if that's what you want."

"Thanks. And one more thing. Don't tell Lily too much about the seance and the dead boy. I don't want to frighten her."

Sordi gave him a shrewd smile. "She'd probably want to hold another seance. Just to see if the house got wrecked again."

"Guess what?" Lily called out when Orient reentered the study. "I just rang up Sybelle. She's coming for dinner day after tomorrow. I predict it'll be an event when she meets Oliver, don't you agree?"

"All females are natural-born romance brokers," Oliver commented gruffly as he toured the bookshelves. "Good afternoon, old dear, sleep well?"

"Like a baby."

"Few more of those long nights, and you'll be all grown up, eh?"

Orient was tempted to a rude answer, then let it pass. He felt too good to let an idle remark annoy him.

"I hope you haven't been bored."

"Not a bit. Your studio is quite fabulous. I enjoyed the films immensely. And your collection of books is fascinating."

Orient watched him as he walked slowly past each section, lightly grazing the volumes with his short ivory stick. Dressed in a knee-length Indian jacket of green silk, ankle-tight trousers of the same material, snakeskin sandals, and his full complement of jewelry, he looked like some white-haired merchant from the ancient Cathay marketplace.

"Ah," Fish murmured, "I see you have an early translation of Abra-Melin, and even the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazrad. My, my, my, but your collection's complete."

Orient accepted the comment with reserve. The Englishman had casually picked out the two most dangerous magical tracts in his library. He wondered if his recent investigations into Arnold Weber's death weren't making him paranoid. That, and having been without Lily. He looked across the room, where she was stretched out on the couch flipping through a magazine. The lemony sunlight streaming through the newly repaired skylight set fire to her hair, setting off vibrant highlights around her chiseled features. He felt reassured that everything would be resolved now that they were together again.

"Well, look here," Fish beamed genially. "What say we go up and visit that kicky meditation room I've heard so much about, and begin our little experiments?"

"I don't mind." As he spoke, Orient noticed the exchange of glances between Lily and Oliver.

"Jolly good, then." Fish slapped the end of the swagger stick into his open palm.

Orient's light mood shattered abruptly when he glimpsed the head of the ivory stick. Cold fragments of apprehension darted through his confusion as he made out a small crystal skull nestling in the Englishman's palm.

Chapter 9

The shock of seeing the tiny carved skull that decorated Oliver's ivory stick continued slashing at Orient's thoughts as he went upstairs with Lily.

Fortunately, she was too excited by the prospect of the experiments to notice his numbed state. She chatted happily as they changed, unaware that he was foundering in a tumult of conflicting emotions. One question kept battering at the door of his brain; was it possible that Arnold's death was somehow connected to Fish and the tantric rite?

As they walked to the meditation room, Orient forced himself to take a hard appraisal of what was happening.

Fish, and to some extent Lily, had maneuvered him into a double situation, both ends of which he was reluctant to explore. One was the practice of tantric yoga, and the other, the revelation of the telepathic technique without knowing the intentions of the recipient.

However, there was a way to exploit the position to his own advantage. He decided that instead of remaining defensive, he'd challenge Fish and gauge his reactions.

"It's still the most beautiful place I've ever been in," Lily said in a hushed voice as they entered the meditation room. She walked across the carpet and sat down by the edge of the pool, holding out her hand to him.

He joined her, still trying to resolve the turmoil set off by the crystal-skull figure.

"I always feel so completely serene in here." Lily let her fingers trail in the water. The softness of her cool shoulder roused him from his brooding. Her long muscles rippled gracefully under a leotard that matched the golden color of her skin. He stroked the smooth length of her arm and saw her dark nipples grow taut, pushing out against the thin fabric.

"Well, I see we're all here and ready," Fish boomed, striding into the room. He'd removed his silk suit for a voluminous embroidered caftan that hung to his ankles, but Orient noticed that he still carried the ivory stick.

"This is it, eh, the famous room?" Oliver stopped and looked around. "Perfectly splendid, of course, but I'm a bit surprised there's no Muzak."

He sat down facing them and crossed his legs.

"Now, then" -- he grinned engagingly from under his stiffly waxed moustache -- "which shall we try first?"

Orient smiled. "You've made me curious. Can we start with the tantric methods?"

"All right with me." He rose fluidly, snatched the hem of the caftan, and pulled it up over his head.

"First thing you've got to do," he explained, sitting down again, "is get bare-ass nekkid."

Orient removed his bathing trunks, duly impressed with Oliver's physical condition. Except for a robust paunch hanging over a sparse bush of white pubic hair, the Englishman's eighty-year-old body was firmly muscled, and his skin glowed rosy pink.

"Now, we go into a few basic exercises designed to stretch the spine and activate certain glands, especially the pineal," Fish lectured, eyes roving over Lily's full, upturned breasts.

Orient's attention was undistracted by Oliver's admiration. He didn't regard Lily's body as belonging to him, or human nakedness lewd in any way. His reasons for avoiding tantrism didn't stem from a belief that sexual activity was sinful. Unfortunately, he'd never been able to convince Lily that guilt wasn't the problem. He went through the exercises easily, noting the differences from his own technique. The stretching positions of tantric yoga stimulated the primary centers, increasing the heart rate and charging the muscles with surges of active energy rather than relaxing and energizing the mind's awareness, as did the telepathic exercises.

The second phase involved sets of dual exercises, which Orient performed with Lily, while Oliver monitored their movements. He found that the second stage not only intensified stimulation of thigh, groin, and abdomen muscles but also caused a marked arousal of the sexual centers, which was heightened by the provocative friction of their naked bodies as they moved together.

"Now, the third phase is somewhat hard to describe. The apprentice must follow without instruction." Oliver peered into Orient's sweating face and smiled. "You know about four-cycle breathing, of course."

He nodded.

"Good. Then it won't be too difficult." He stretched out his pink, knobby-muscled legs. "We form a circle first, legs extended, with the soles of our feet joined."

Orient leaned back on his hands, touching his left foot to Lily's and his right to Oliver's extended toes.

"All one does now is concentrate on the pattern made by our legs, and the energy generated by the contact of our feet," Fish went on, "keeping a four-count breathing cycle as you go. We'll do the rest."

Unfamiliar tensions pulsing through his sinews made it more difficult than usual for Orient to focus his concentration. But as he continued to deepen the intake of air through his nostrils and exert greater control on the exhalation of waste through his mouth, the pattern of the three-pointed star formed by their legs grew larger in his consciousness. He heard a rhythmic hiss and realized Oliver was chanting softly.

Then he felt an electric tingle of sensation as Lily's voice began a husky counterpoint to Oliver's hissing tempo.

All of Orient's senses began to glow as the varied symbology of the tri-pointed star pattern unfolded in his awareness. At each angle were the sexual organs transmitting billions of intensely charged signals from body to brain. Centered by their joint concentration, this energy whirled from pole to pole at an ever-increasing rate, sending warm shocks of pleasure through his belly.

The chanting became louder and the shocks escalated to ecstatic tremors that rippled through his legs. Orient felt his penis swell and become rigid as his concentration focused tighter on the mounting energy.

Lily's inner thighs and breasts were gleaming with perspiration, and when their eyes met, urgent prickles of delight danced through the delicious shivers in Orient's groin. He glanced at Oliver and saw that the Englishman was sitting back, eyes closed, completely in the thrall of his chant, but not visibly excited.

Deliberately, as the energy throbbed toward some indefinable crest beyond sensation or control, Orient carefully pulled his concentration back.

Fish's whispered chant became a series of insistent grunts punctuating Lily's strange crooning melody. A lush, soothing quality in their sounds tempted Orient to linger in the pleasure garden, but he continued easing his awareness out of the pattern.

The electric tremors ceased abruptly, and a few moments later Oliver's tempoed song trailed off.

"That was wonderful, darling," Lily congratulated. "Really strong for the first time."

She was breathing rapidly, and hot yellow flames streaked her amber eyes.

"Yes indeed. Outstanding," Fish agreed. "Best experiments with a novice I've experienced yet. You really do have amazing control, old dear."

Orient took a deep breath, trying to calm the energy still buzzing like velvety insects through his nerves. He was pleased with the results himself. He'd been able to explore the nature of tantrism without exposing his faculties to possible tampering. Now he'd have a chance to study the reality of Fish's commitment.

He leaned back on one elbow and looked up at him. "That was very heavy potential zipping through us. What happens when you get beyond where we were?"

Fish's smile was almost condescending. "Beyond that point, we reach a simultaneous orgasm that lifts the mind to a completely new state of being. And an understanding of what I like to call the biological imperative.

"In that state, there is no good or evil, light or darkness, life or death, because the sexual energy generated by man is somewhat different in quality from the natural energy produced by the universe. Unique to us, you see, and powerful. The level to which this purely organic energy transports the will is quite rarefied."

Orient nodded. He'd have a chance to test the flexibility of that rarefied will soon 'enough.

"I find even these basic exercises exhilarating," Lily said fervently. "Oh, darling, I can't wait until you progress to other forms. You'll become adept in a very short time, I know."

"Quite adept." Fish squinted at Orient. "Can't get over the amount of control you already have."

"Is this the same technique you employed in your London rite?" Orient asked. Again Fish's eyes darted to Lily.

"More or less," he began hesitantly. "Higher forms, of course, very advanced and complicated. Only Germaine, Lily, and myself have reached the Sahasrara level. That's the highest chakra, or body gate, through which the flaming serpent of aroused awareness must pass to achieve total understanding."

Orient bypassed the details in favor of a question that was of burning importance to him. "Is Germaine also using techniques from Milara's lodge?"

"Yes. Quite so," Oliver drawled, visibly uncomfortable. "Funny thing is, the count went off looking for that Ku fellow at one time, same as I did, and he too ran into Milara instead. Huge coincidence, don't you think?"

"What path is Milara following, then, right or left?" The sharp edge of the query cut through Orient's casual tone.

Fish's eyes narrowed. "More like center, old dear. But no matter. Look here, how about taking me through your specialty, now that you know what mine's all about."

Orient had no idea what Oliver's specialty was all about, but he began instructing the large Englishman in the basic patterns that preceded telepathic communication. With Lily's help he took Fish through the relaxing exercises, to the stage where physical movement, breathing, and concentration were all coordinated. Then he showed him how to shift from shallow four-count breathing to a deep eight-cycle pattern.

"Try to feel your actual brain and body cells, then let your concentration draw every cell in your being to one harmony," he explained. "Like a solar system, with your will as the sun."

When he saw that Oliver was deep in meditation, Orient slipped into a lightly activated state, where he could absorb energy, while guiding his pupil.

"As all the elements slowly come into the orbit, surrender ego completely, and its release will uncover a powerful mass of potential energy," Orient continued. He leisurely charged his own awareness, knowing that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for the Englishman to release his ego. As he went deeper into his breathing, he prayed Oliver would succeed.

With each cycle, Orient's concentration circled faster, accelerated by the weight of his will. Then he let the farthest edge of his awareness drift free of concentration, in search of another attraction.

A soft implosion at the base of his brain signaled that his positive probe had found a passive field. He opened his eyes and focused on the gleaming head of the stick lying next to Fish. Whirling his concentration faster, he absorbed, then released, the image of the skull, like a stone hurled from a sling.

When it made contact with Oliver's passive gravity, the force of the reaction lashed back, almost toppling Orient's orbit. His trained senses recognized the first sputter of confusion, and huddled inward against the coming detonation.

After a brief ripple of suspicion, he felt an expanding rush of energy and spread the humming tendrils of his consciousness like a net.

A blast of fear singed his comprehension, shattering the orbit. Splinters of anxiety pierced the darkness behind his closed eyes as he carefully slowed his breathing rate.

He did his best to ease the retreat from the booming chaos caused by Oliver's reaction to the skull image, but the intensity of the reaction had caught him off-balance. As his thoughts stumbled back to cohesion, a dull headache attacked his brain. He opened his eyes and saw Oliver, leaning back on his hands, blotchy pink paunch rising and falling rapidly.

Orient moved awkwardly to the Englishman's side, senses still reeling.

"Are you all right, Oliver?" Lily asked, glancing anxiously at Orient.

"Yes, yes, m'dear." He opened his eyes and looked at Orient. "Just a bit startled."

"I thought I'd use something familiar," Orient explained mildly, senses alert for any sign of stress.

There were none. Oliver yawned and shook his head, like a dog emerging from water.

"Caught me by surprise. I was expecting something more conventional, like a symbol or some word. I wasn't ready to see the head of my old stick."

"Hope I didn't frighten you," Orient pressed.

Fish beamed genially. "Not at all. Damned good show, really. The picture was quite clear, too," he added, as if complimenting his repairman.

Orient remained unconvinced. Despite his calm, Oliver's reaction to the image had been violently emotional.

"Then it was a success," Lily was saying. She grinned at Orient. "See? I know a telepathic potential when I feel one."

"Absolutely. Oliver grasped the mechanics on his first try."

"Then this calls for a celebration." She stood up and stretched. "Let's go ask Sordi if he's got anything special stashed in his cellar."

Fish picked up her folded leotard and tossed it in front of her bare feet.

"Don't forget your name is Lady Sativa, sweetie," he reminded, winking at Orient. "Not Lady Go-diva."

Later, as they had some before-dinner drinks and discussed the results of the experiments, Orient continued to watch Oliver for any indication that the skull image had upset him. But Fish passed over it lightly, and kept directing the conversation to their investigation of tantric yoga.

"You seemed quite able to handle a powerful sexual charge, dear boy," he complimented, toying with his moustache.

Lily smiled. "Testimony. I'll drink to that."

"High potential?" Orient asked, offering him a smoke.

Fish picked a hand-wrapped cigarette from the silver case. "Of course. That too. But what's really most important" -- he leaned forward to give Orient a light from his gold Dunhill -- "you have enough control to open your first and second chakra almost immediately. I'd wager that you could be ready to take part in the rite of the Serpent Fire this next year."

"Wouldn't that be fabulous?" Lily enthused.

Oliver gave her an approving smile. "You'd be able to reach the first stage tomorrow if you're willing to devote an entire afternoon."

His answer was interrupted by Sordi's entrance with a tray of fritto misto.

As they dined, Orient continued to wonder about Fish's violent reaction to the skull image and his almost stubborn refusal to discuss that phase of the experiments. It was clear to him now that Lily had brought Oliver to New York to help initiate him into tantrism. Her plans were presumptuous but understandable. What wasn't clear was the connection, if any, between the crystal skull on Oliver's stick and the apparition that had accompanied the attack during the seance. He decided to be direct.

"You know, Oliver, the reason I chose the skull image this afternoon was because I find the figure on your stick fascinating. Is it Tibetan?"

"No. Not at all. It's African." He turned to Sordi. "This white wine is superb, my dear fellow. It has the heartiness of a true Epomeo vintage."

"A true nose," Sordi lauded. "But you must have spent time on Ischia."

"I used to go every year for the hot baths. Marvelous enchanted island until they turned it into a bloody autostrada for idiot motorists. They even tore out some of the beach to make wider roads. Why in hell you need a motorcar on an island holiday, I'll never understand. Your people could learn a bit from Bermuda."

"Tell me more about the crystal skull," Orient persisted. "Is it Mayan?"

"Yes, do," Lily chimed in, despite a sharp glance from Oliver. "I've seen you carry that piece for years now, and you've never told me a thing about it."

Fish reached inside his green velvet jacket and withdrew the short ivory stick. "You've both got a good eye." He chuckled paternally. "Actually, this little fellow's quite rare, one of only five in the world." He passed the stick to Lily.

"This one's the older brother of two skulls which were found in Mexico. Both are in museums. One slightly larger than mine is now in the Musee de I'Homme in Paris. Probably Aztec in origin. Another, even larger, but flawed crystal skull resides across the ditch in the British Museum. That too is Aztec, or possibly Mixtec. Both are rather crudely executed, I'm sorry to say."

"Yours is lovely." Lily held it up to the light. "Quite detailed."

She passed the stick to Orient.

"Isn't it fantastic?"

He grunted agreement. The skull had been expertly crafted from a chunk of polished quartz and set on small silver prongs so that it rested slightly above its yellowed ivory base, allowing light to pass unimpeded through the transparent figure.

"What about the others?" Sordi asked, squinting across the table at the object in Orient's hands.

"Ah, the third skull is truly a fascinating piece. It's life-size, and absolutely perfect in every respect. Discovered by the daughter of an explorer who was looking for evidence of Atlantis in the jungles of British Honduras. In 1924, an American by the name of Mitchell-Hedges discovered the ruins of a lost temple at Lubaantun. His daughter Ann found the skull underneath an altar. And since then it's confounded all the experts. The site at Lubaantun is Mayan, but the crystal skull seems to have absolutely no connection to that period. A piece of perfect quartz of that size is rare indeed" -- Oliver paused to inhale the fragrance of his brandy -- "but the Mitchell-Hedges skull rivals the Great Pyramid for riddles. For one thing, it would be impossible to reproduce, even with our so-called advanced technology. It's truly a magnificent, mysterious, and priceless objet d'art."

He beamed grandly at his audience. "And reputed to have magical properties as well. In fact, during the time the thing was in Mitchell-Hedges' possession, he survived eight bullet wounds and three knife attacks. He always claimed that it would be possible to will someone to death using the skull."

Fish looked directly at Orient. "Some people have even seen visions when they gazed at it."

Orient's comment was interrupted by Sordi, who was examining the ivory stick close up. "Where does this one come from? Mexico, too?"

For a moment the white-haired Englishman toyed with the golden-egg pendant around his neck. "I found it in the Sudan, years ago, while doing a bit of exploring myself. Interestingly enough, it bears a marked resemblance to the Aztec figures."

"And does it too have magical properties, like a wizard's wand?" Lily teased.

Oliver shrugged elaborately. "Quite possibly, m'dear. You see, I found it on the site of a desert ruin that reputedly was an ancient center of worship. Fellow once told me there was a good possibility the ivory came from a prehistoric mastodon. Kicky, eh?"

"Tell us about the fifth skull," Orient said casually.

Fish peered at him intently, twirling one waxed point of his long moustache.

"Tell me, old dear," he asked lightly, "ever hear tell of a place called Schamballah?" His eyes didn't waver as he waited for an answer.

"Schamballah..." He floated the word through his memory, then shook his head. "No. Never have."

Oliver grunted.

"Well, Schamballah was also an ancient center of worship. And a great seaport. Located on what's now known as the ruins of Tiahuanaco, near lake Titicaca, about twelve thousand feet up in the Bolivian Andes. The fifth skull was discovered there by a German archaeologist named Kidd in 1944. Legend has it that it's the sacred skull of Schamballah, which was a city of powerful sorcerers that existed one hundred thousand years ago, when men were giants and endowed with wisdom far beyond our own apelike posturing." He refilled his snifter. "Kidd smuggled the thing into Peru, and then he and the sacred skull disappeared."

Sordi frowned. "This city you're talking about, this Schamballah. You say it was a seaport? A seaport twelve thousand feet up the Andes Mountains?"

"Does sound farfetched," Oliver agreed. "But you can go there and see the giant stone quays that still remain. And scientists have discovered marine sediment all around the area. In those days, you see, the oceans were much higher. All the great seaports were located on what are now inaccessible mountain ranges. Lots of legends about a great port near Everest."

"This skull of Schamballah," Orient pressed, "did it also have any special powers?"

Fish stared at him. "It's supposed to be the single most powerful object on earth."

"Well, we'll never know, will we?" Lily commented. "The thing's lost now. Probably in some Swiss bank vault."

Oliver patted her hand.

"Don't be too positive, sweetie. These things have a way of getting around." He winked. "True, Owen?"

"That's for sure," Sordi blurted. "The doctor said it was some kind of skull thing that wrecked the house during the seance."

Then, realizing by the grim expression on Orient's face that he'd committed a diplomatic error, he made an awkward attempt to cover the remark.

"But of course I... don't exactly know if it was a crystal skull... probably something else."

Both Lily and Oliver turned and waited for Orient's classification.

"You know, dearest," she reminded, after a long pause, "you never did explain how your windows were broken."

Orient stubbed out his cigarette.

"Sybelle asked me to help contact a friend's son who recently died. We made the contact easily enough, but then there was a disturbance, accompanied by a vision of a transparent skull. The disturbance caused some damage, but we were able to control it finally."

"Was it a crystal skull, old dear, like mine?"

Orient smiled. "Could have been. I'm not really sure. I suppose that's why I became so interested in your stick."

"We should try another seance," Lily suggested quickly.

"Yes," Fish agreed. "What was the boy's name?"

"Arnold. But since then his mother's asked that we discontinue any attempt to contact him."

"And you're going to honor her request?" Fish seemed incredulous.

"Yes, I am," Orient answered unhappily. He found lying a difficult and unrewarding business.

"I see. Well, as you wish. You're certainly the best judge of all that, I suppose."

"We'll see," Lily threatened. "Sybelle might have something else to say about the matter."

Orient's misgivings grew. Sybelle was certain to share the adventurous point of view. And he was instinctively wary of involving Oliver in their investigation. He'd noted that the Englishman's expression had changed completely when Sordi mentioned the attack. But he wasn't sure if it was guilt, fear, or excitement that had glazed Oliver's eyes.

"Excuse me, I want to clear some of this stuff away," Sordi said hastily, giving him a contrite glance.

"Wait for me." As Lily began helping him pile dishes, she smiled wickedly at Orient. "I'll bet that Sordi tells me more after five minutes in the kitchen than you would in a month."

For some time after they left, the large room was completely quiet. Orient imperceptibly began a slow breathing pattern, charging his senses in hopes of picking up some vibrational clue to the real intentions of the flamboyant adventurer sitting across his table. He dowsed through the quiet in vain. Oliver seemed devoid of emotion or nervous tension.

Fish stretched out his long arms, brought one hand back to stifle a yawn, then broke the thick silence stuffing the space between them.

"Do y'mind showing me your palm?"

The question caught Orient by surprise.

"My palm?" he repeated lamely.

The Englishman studied his reaction for a moment.

"Yes, old dear, your palm. Thought it might be kicky to take a read. Perhaps I can see if you're due to have any more trouble with that skull thing. You did say it was a crystal skull that wrecked the house?"

"I said it might have been, but I couldn't be certain."

"Hmmm, well, anyway, let's see your hands. Put them together, little fingers joined. That's a good fellow."

Orient extended his palms without enthusiasm. It occurred to him that with these brief experiments in tantric yoga, telepathy, and palmistry, Oliver could gather enough information to make up a profound psychic profile of him. Something quite useful to a practicing warlock.

"My word, you certainly don't make it easy, do you?" Fish clucked.

Orient understood his dilemma. Since birth the skin on his hands had been webbed with a network of deep crisscrossing lines, like those of a very old man.

"Can see some remarkably vivid currents in the storm, though," Fish mused. "Explosive sexuality. We saw that today, didn't we? Mount of Venus has a really unique formation. And a fractured life line all the way. You've got a lively future, if you survive."

He continued to study the hands for a few minutes without further comment. Then he turned over Orient's left hand.

"That's a marvelous old ring you're wearing. Lapis lazuli, carved with a star of Ishtar. Must be two thousand years old at least. Where did you get it?"

"Found it in Morocco," he grunted, neglecting to explain that it'd been conferred on him by the master Ahmehmet in Marrakesh as a token of his ascendance to the second level.

"Morocco, eh? That's odd. It's definitely Persian. Nobody else worked silver and lapis like that."

"Could be." He withdrew his hand. "See anything in my palm besides sex and danger?"

Fish avoided his eyes.

"Very complicated, old dear. Perhaps sometime I'll take a plaster cast and go over it thoroughly. Really quite remarkable." He yawned again.

"Think I'll pack it in. Want to be fresh as possible for our experiments tomorrow."

"I'm afraid I won't be able to be there."

Oliver stopped in mid-yawn and stared at him.

"You are joking, of course. I thought we agreed."

"You did propose the experiment, but I never agreed. You see, I'm working on another project. We're going to have to put off any other experimentation until later in the week."

"Lily will be devastated, of course," Fish reminded. "She's very keen on trying it."

Orient folded his arms. "I know."

"And if we wait, we'll have to go back to point one. Must have continuity in these matters."

Orient didn't answer. He knew his decision would cause repercussions, but it couldn't be avoided. There was no way he could commit himself now to a new discipline, even if he wished. And he refused to be pressured into something that wasn't his choice.

"Well, come on, you two," Lily said happily when she entered. "It's not even midnight. Let's take Oliver out to some good New York pubs. How about Elaine's?"

"Elaine's is no longer a good pub," Oliver proclaimed. "And your friend Owen just informed me he's not going further with the tantric exercises."

"Darling, you're not serious." She sat down at the table and took his hand. "Is something wrong?"

He smiled.

"Nothing's wrong. It's just that I'm in the middle of some research that can't wait. I didn't know today's experiment would be a daily thing. But I'm willing to pick it up in a month or so."

"A month." She looked at Oliver. "Is it possible?"

Fish pressed his jeweled fingers together and shook his head.

"Too long. I've got a few things to attend to myself. Not much time to spare. Sorry, sweetie." He squinted his blue eyes at Orient. "You see, Lily isn't qualified to guide initiates through the chakras."

"Owen, darling, think," Lily urged huskily. "You're throwing away an ideal opportunity. Oliver can initiate you right here. In a few days. Think what it could mean to us."

He met her eyes, silently pleading that she understand.

"I'm not rejecting tantrism, or you," he said gently. "But I have another commitment."

The light disappeared from her eyes. "I understand, my love."

After some cajoling, Oliver condescended to visit Melon's, and the three of them went down to the East Seventies. As Orient drove, Lily gave Oliver an enthusiastic pitch on the beauties of the vintage Rolls Ghost.

"No need to convince me," he sniffed. "I've always believed in good old-fashioned British workmanship. Pity is, you can't get it anymore."

"You see," she pounced with delight. "This Rolls wasn't made in Britain at all. It was put together at an American factory the company maintained in the twenties. In Springfield, Massachusetts."

"Well, that part of America used to be English," Oliver grumbled.

"And an American called Brewster designed the coach," she continued, undaunted. "With some assistance from an American buff called Owen. He's put in a lot of work modifying the body, suspension, and interior."

"Remarkably comfortable ride," Oliver granted. "Are we going in the right direction?"

Orient did his best to make the evening pleasant. After weeks of work he found it relaxing to just sit in a bar full of pretty people, sip a brandy, and talk. But that night, as if the social deities were repaying him in kind for having spurned them, conversation and camaraderie eluded him. Lily and Oliver were polite but remote. Their eyes kept straying beyond him, despite all attempts at engagement. Lily halfheartedly tried to keep things going, but Fish was frankly bored.

Orient understood. His refusal had limited the possibilities of their friendship. It did seem, however, that Oliver was taking it personally.

Lily, too, seemed unduly distracted. Outwardly, she was attentive and affectionate, but later that morning, when they made love, Orient felt that her thoughts were elsewhere. Her body responded coolly and mechanically to his touch, and as soon as her moaning cries of release had subsided, she turned away and slipped into sleep, leaving him to ponder his doubts.

He awoke late and alone, and was informed that Lily had taken Oliver sightseeing. Somehow the fact that he was free to continue his investigation of Arnold Weber's life didn't please him.

However, he dutifully took Arnold's address book, checked it against the chart he'd made, and went out to interview the next name on the list. And with each block he drove, he questioned the wisdom of his decision concerning the tantric rite.

An exaggerated sense of conviction may have induced him to jeopardize his relationship with Lily and nullified a chance to learn a new technique from an expert. Depression deepened the negative results of self-examination, and he reached for his silver case.

"Om, Aing, Ghring, Cling, Charmuda, Yei Vijay..." he whispered, repeating the ancient Brahmin mantra for the consecration of Bhang, as he lit his cigarette.

While he smoked, he tried to relax and center his concentration on the basic purpose for his existence and the real roots of his values. He kept coming back to the same simple conclusions.

He'd never asked to be initiated into tantrism. He did have other obligations, and if Lily's precondition for love was surrender of personal beliefs, then something was wrong. If his independent view put stress on their relationship, it was flawed and would crumble no matter what he decided.

Orient sighed helplessly. She was spoiled and willful, but there was nothing to do except hope she'd grow up. Unfortunately, the logic did nothing to lighten his depression.

Everything conspired to discourage him that day.

First he wasted two hours waiting for a man who turned out to be Arnold's tailor, whose only recollection of his client was that he was fussy but prompt to pay his bills.

Then he maneuvered into buying lunch for a young stock-market clerk who spent most of his time complaining about his job, before admitting that he'd spent an uneventful weekend with Arnold the previous summer and hadn't seen him since. He was only mildly surprised at the news of his death.

The next two people on the list were extremely suspicious of Orient's intentions and refused to answer any questions beyond the fact that they knew him socially.

Despite his unanimous lack of success, Orient kept at it, unwilling to return home: Finally he visited a talkative elderly woman who knew Gladys Weber and hinted that she knew of some "degenerate doings" Arnold was involved with but refused to go further. After hours of patiently listening to a detailed history of her gallstones and bladder disorders, he was rewarded with the information that Arnold was using drugs, gave wild parties, and had gotten a young girl in trouble. This, the woman assured Orient, she'd heard directly from a neighbor of the girl's mother.

The next entry in the address book was difficult to decipher. It read: "Jojo/Panther's Lair." Orient took the telephone from its compartment in the mahogany dashboard and with one hand pushed the dial buttons for information. There was no record in any of the boroughs of a place called Panther's Lair. One operator did tell him that many bars in the city used public telephones. In that case he would need the exact address.

Frustrated and weary, Orient replaced the receiver and swung uptown on the West Side Highway, joining the last ebb of traffic deserting midtown, as the city's savage dreams blinked awake with the coming of darkness.

When he reached home he found that Lily and Oliver were still out.

More from a sense of duty than any creative enthusiasm, he spent the next few hours going over the remaining footage with Sordi. As expected, his dapper assistant had done a thoroughly professional and sometimes inspired job on the film. Orient was sure that the project would be ready to deliver in a few weeks, and secure that they'd realize enough money to keep the institute for psychic research open for another year. With a minimum of outside help, they'd be able to replace most of the damaged equipment.

But even that wasn't enough to pierce the thick coat of depression muffling his energy. Refusing Sordi's offer of a snack, he went up for an extended workout in the meditation room.

He checked his watch when he finished. Eleven-thirty, and still no word. At midnight he went to bed with a copy of the Ramayana, and at one Lily entered the bedroom. Her skin was flushed, and she was weaving slightly.

"I'm late," she announced defiantly.

He smiled. "Did we have an appointment?"

Her eyes narrowed. A black silk turban covered her hair, accentuating perfectly contoured cheekbones and the long curve of her neck. A rigid blue vein throbbing along that graceful line warned Orient that her mood was volcanic.

"We met some friends at Clarke's and had a party. You wouldn't have liked it. Nobody had a quest."

He ignored the bait.

"Did Oliver like it?"

"He was glorious. Someone remarked that Oliver revived the art of conversation with his first dada. Isn't that clever?"

"Super," he agreed softly.

Walking carefully, she came around the bed and sat down next to him. Her skin and clothing exuded a mixture of tobacco smoke, perspiration, perfume, and alcohol that teased his senses. She squinted, trying to focus her bleary eyes.

"Are you jealous of Oliver?"

"No."

"Because there's no reason," she continued, ignoring his reply. "Actually, I'm the one who should be jealous. Oliver much prefers boys to girls. He's homosexual, you know."

"I'm not jealous of Oliver."

She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Then why did you back out of your agreement with him?"

"I didn't back out. I never agreed in the first place. As I told you," he added grimly, "I'm not rejecting tantrism. This just isn't the right time."

"I know what you said. But I don't believe it."

"Nothing I can do, then."

She shrugged. "You could at least be man enough to be honest about it. What are you afraid of?"

Orient waited until the warm wave of anger passed before answering. "You sure you're not the one who's not being honest?"

The vein in her neck twitched. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Oliver didn't come here for a social call. You asked him here to get me to agree to the tantric experiments."

She smiled, but the jagged blue line on her golden throat betrayed her emotion. "All right. It's true. You'd never get involved otherwise because of your stupid dislike of Count Germaine."

"Distrust," he corrected.

Fury burned away the bleary film over her eyes, revealing twin disks of blazing amber. "You don't trust me, either, do you?"

When he didn't answer, a dark haze covered the glare in her eyes, and one corner of her pink mouth turned up in a crooked smile.

"Very well," she said softly. "I'll tell you a bedtime story before retiring. Wouldn't you like me to satisfy your masculine curiosity about the rite of the Serpent Fire?"

Resentment and anger pounded in his throat, roaring for freedom, but he pushed them back and clenched his jaws shut.

She mistook his silence for assent, and went on.

"Everyone who took part in the rite went on a sexual fast for ninety days preceding the moon phase." She leaned over and brushed his ear with her lips. "I was the exception, as you well know. I had a very central role this year."

She regarded him through narrow slits in her green-shadowed eyelids, a half-smile still playing across her moist lips.

"The entire week before the full moon was devoted to preliminary exercises. Much like those we went over yesterday. Remember those delicious sensations? Imagine how much sharper they are after three months of abstinence."

Her voice lowered.

"Then, in the second phase I watched with Count Germaine as the other six participants, led by Oliver, touched and fondled each other. It was beautiful. No one was allowed to come to orgasm, and I could see each lovely detail of their excited play: breasts being stroked; nipples licked; thighs opened; everyone pressing their naked skin against each other; and this... energy... gathering over them like a satin cloud. Then, at the apex, Count Germaine declared the hour, and offered me as living sacrifice to the rite."

Her husky voice became a crooning whisper, and her cool hand caressed the back of his neck.

"They all formed a circle around me and stripped the robes from my body. They were trembling with desire for me... oh, yes... I could feel hot sheets of hunger covering me as they chanted their mantras to the Kundalini. The serpent fire lifted its head... uncoiling through the chakras... one by one... upward toward total fulfillment... as they fell on me and washed me in their love. The first was a magnificent black woman who straddled my thighs and began sucking my breasts... after that I couldn't distinguish whose fingers... whose mouth... I accepted all of it. That was my function as priestess. I became Shakti... pure female presence... the pleasure object... the earth favored to receive everyone's seed." Her hands became more insistent on his skin.

"The ecstasy took over completely. They made love to me, and each other, for hours. I was drenched with their excitement. Then I was ready for the final phase of the rite... my own awakening... by Germaine...."

The pounding pressure in Orient's chest expanded until it blasted violently through his clenched teeth, the strangled cry unlocking his frozen muscles.

Lily screamed with hysterical fear as he roughly pushed her off the bed, scrambled to his feet, grabbed some clothes, and hurried out of the room.

He dressed in the elevator down to the garage, discovering that he'd taken only bathing trunks and a sweater, then got into the Ghost and drove aimlessly for hours until the roaring had subsided to a bitter throb in his belly.

Sometime later he became aware that he was driving on a small country road in New Jersey and stopped to check a map for the way back to the city. Dawn was breaking by the time he arrived.

He could see the lights on the second floor from the street, but hadn't the strength to face Sordi. He took the elevator directly to the third floor.

When he entered the bedroom, he saw that Lily was gone.

This time she'd taken everything with her.

Chapter 10

Orient didn't leave his room until late afternoon.

When he finally came down to the studio, however, he'd made his decisions. There was no use clinging to any hopes for a reunion with Lily. Even if she'd agree, he wasn't sure he wanted to try again. His emotions felt chewed up. All he could do was channel all that remained into his work, and hope it would erase her memory quickly.

Sordi looked up from the Moviola when he entered.

"There's a pitcher of fresh orange juice on the table," he called out cheerfully.

Orient went over and poured himself a glass. "How's it going today?"

"All right, so far." He ran a hand through his gray hair, started to say something more, then thought better of it, and shut off the machine. He smiled conspiratorially.

"Some fight you had last night."

Orient winced. "Was Lily upset?"

"Really mad. She yelled for Oliver to pack up right away. Said you hit her." He peered at Orient with undisguised interest. "Did you?"

"Maybe so. I don't remember."

Sordi seemed almost heartened by the news.

"You must have some Italian blood," he confided.

"Better call Sybelle and tell her dinner's off."

"Want me to tell her why?"

He shrugged. "Might save me a lot of explaining later."

Sordi nodded sagely.

"I know what to say." He picked up an envelope from the table. "Oliver left this."

He read the note on the way down to the garage:

My dear Owen.

Forgive my hasty departure. A poor way to repay a distinguished host. My profound thanks for your kindness, I shall make amends at the earliest possible opportunity. Until then, my sincerest regards,

Oliver Fish

As he drove downtown, Orient's thoughts kept revolving around the tiny glass skull decorating Fish's ivory stick. He was inclined to believe its presence was just an interesting coincidence, but couldn't rule out any possibility until learning the full truth. He realized with dismay that Lily's departure also prevented him from finding out more about her flamboyantly adept friend.

Lily. Her name rang a bitter chord from memory to belly. He took a deep breath, trying to push its sound from his mind. Right now he had only one objective -- to free Arnold Weber's soul from whatever force held it from completing its journey.

He parked the car, took the address book from his pocket, and flipped the pages to the next entry. He ran into a snag immediately. "Jojo/Panther's Lair" was still waiting to be deciphered.

After a few moments he remembered something. If the name had anything to do with Arnold's homosexual interests, it could probably be traced through one of the gay directories. He left the car, walked a block, and found a newsstand.

The Panther's Lair was listed under "Bars, Leather" in a booklet called Gay Nites. The critical notes described it as being "the heaviest of the S/M saddle-stops." Orient bought the directory and walked slowly back to the car. Arnold's homosexual links had been easily established, but this was the first definite connection to the sado-masochistic subculture to turn up. He wondered if it was the lead he'd been looking for.

The bar was located downtown, on the waterfront.

Its nameless windows were boarded over, as was the door. Orient pushed, and found it unlocked.

He entered a large, cheerless room divided into unequal parts by a horseshoe-shaped bar. Two men in motorcycle jackets were playing pool in the rear, while the bartender stacked cases of beer. None of them paid any attention when he walked in.

Orient sat at the bar and waited, idly browsing the hand-printed signs over the register that announced the various social events available:

WED NITE/ TO ALL PATRONS W/COWBOY HATS DRINKS 1/2 PRICE, TUES/ 7 NY CLUBS DO THEIR THING; FRI/ LEATHER NITE/ ONLY PATRONS IN LEATHER ALLOWED.

It was then that he noticed the long sections of chains, with meat hooks attached, hanging directly overhead. A cardboard Halloween skeleton was spread-eagled between two of the chains.

The dirt-darkened mirrors paneling the opposite walls were splotched with composites of male figure models, and a dim lamp in the far corner illuminated a bulletin board.

The bartender approached, wiping his hands on his oily Levi's. He was in his early twenties, with crew-cut hair.

"What are you drinking?" he asked curtly.

Orient ordered a beer and watched him unceremoniously slam a can on the bar and peel back the top before going back to stacking cases.

Orient picked up the cold can and casually walked over to inspect the illuminated board.

During his medical studies and brief practice he'd learned something of sadists, masochists, and their intense courtship rituals. He knew that beyond the basic fact that they enjoyed inflicting and receiving pain during sexual encounters, there was an established S/M culture that existed unseen across America. This culture had strict rules of behavior, adopted fetishistic uniforms, such as Arnold's black leather jacket, and had its own language and laws, based on classical sexual fantasies. Oddly enough, in his limited research he'd found that masochists outnumbered sadists by about four to one.

Despite the experience, however, he wasn't completely prepared for the bulletin board. Certain items were obvious, such as: "Slave wanted to clean my apartment." Others, like the index card reading "F.F. Wanted," weren't as clear. Most of the space was taken up with club news such as the announcement that the Norseman Motorcycle Club was having its annual boat ride and dinner dance. "I understand that the Norseman M.C. is not responsible for injury or personal property" was the ominous addition.

There were also a number of glossy photographs of oiled, muscular young men in leather bikinis and cowboy hats, who were vying for the title of Mr. Panther. One leftover Christmas card showed Santa brandishing a long, spiked whip. Below that, surreal offset illustrations of "Rubber Slaves", in baggy rubber spacesuits with rubber masks over their faces and dark goggles over the masks, presided over an endless price list of harnesses, cinches, straps, handcuffs, and chain restraints. "Pass the word", one card suggested, "in Omaha it's the Diamond Club."

He walked morosely back to the bar, the harsh glimpse into human need jabbing at his depression.

"Do you have a pencil and paper?" he asked the bartender. "I'd like to leave a message. For Jojo."

The bartender took a toothpick from behind his ear and inserted it between his teeth.

"You don't need that," he sneered. "Jojo'll be around. About ten tonight."

"Thanks, I'll be back." Leaving his change on the bar, he turned to go.

"Don't forget," the bartender cautioned. "It's Friday."

"I know," he grunted wearily. "Leather night."

Driving back uptown, it occurred to Orient that Philip Gentry, the owner of the leather boutique, might be able to give him more information about the kinky side of Arnold's past. Because of social pressures, most members of the S/M fraternity preferred to keep their associations secret. It also spiced the ritualistic, codeword, underground atmosphere of their sexual conduct. He decided it would be wise for him to pretend a personal involvement with the scene. If Jojo thought he was a detective of any kind, he'd probably refuse to talk.

Orient arrived home still depressed and ready for a workout. He wasn't, however, ready for Sybelle.

"Poor dear Owen," she gushed sympathetically. "I rushed over as soon as Sordi called. Tell me all about it."

"We had a fight, and Lily left. Nothing much more to report."

"Nonsense. Sit down." She went to the sideboard and poured him a large Scotch.

"Now, don't give me your Victorian opinions on the dangers of alcohol. Some occasions call for a drink. And this is definitely one of those times." She thrust the glass into his hand. "Bottoms up, darling."

He took her advice. The Scotch warmed his throat like an old friend, and he felt the taut muscles in his belly relax.

"Now, tell me," Sybelle said sweetly. "When did Lily get back?"

"Three days ago. She brought a friend. Oliver Fish. Ever hear of him?" She pursed her lips. "Never have. Is he handsome?"

"Some people might find him attractive. Lily seemed to think you'd be fascinated. Why?"

Sybelle paused to adjust the red chiffon scarf around her neck. "In my checkered experience, I've found that most knock-down, drag-out fights are usually caused by handsome friends of one kind or another."

For a moment he looked at her with disbelief.

"Our fight wasn't caused by Oliver Fish," he muttered. "And as a matter of fact, wasn't of the knock-down, drag-out variety."

"Well, suppose you tell me just what kind it was." She sighed, as if dealing with an unruly child.

"We had a serious disagreement. I lost my temper, and Lily walked out on me. It's as simple as that." He stared into the bottom of his empty glass, hoping the explanation would satisfy her. It was as much as he could give.

Sybelle seemed to sense the weight of his mood.

"Sorry, dear," she said gently. "I suppose I'm just a harp. I really wanted to advise you. I do have some expertise in these matters, you know. Does it bother you terribly to talk about it?"

He smiled. "It does."

"Then it's settled. I won't pry. At least for a week or so. What about this friend? Why did Lily think I'd like him?"

"A few reasons. Oliver's charming, sophisticated, uninhibited, very knowledgeable about the psychic sciences. Quite adventurous, too, from what I know of him."

She made a face.

"Just my luck to miss him. Of course" -- she lowered her blue-shadowed eyelids -- "charming as he may be, I'm sure he doesn't have the real qualities. Not like Sordi, for instance."

"They hit it off very well. Do you know where Sordi is, by the way?"

"Where do you think? In the kitchen. I'm not going to let a little domestic squabble do me out of one of his gorgeous dinners."

Orient was soon grateful she'd come. Her lighthearted banter with Sordi helped fill his own emptied emotions and recharged his confidence. Their naturally sympathetic vibrations seemed to begin a healing process within him, like seeds sown on arid land.

"I don't suppose you've been able to do much about poor Arnold." She sighed, pouring a second brandy.

"As a matter of fact, I've got an appointment with someone tonight."

Her round face became animated with interest. "Who's that? Let me go along with you."

He smiled and shook his head. "This one's at a sort of men's club. No ladies allowed."

She lowered her voice.

"One of those gay places?" He nodded.

"You be careful. You're much too pretty to go unnoticed. What time will you be back?"

He stood up, came around her chair, and kissed her cheek.

"Too late to give you a report. But I'll be around tomorrow to tell you what happened."

"Make sure you do," she chided. "Here I thought you'd be pining away, and you've got tons of things going on. Don't forget. I'll be waiting for your call."

After assuring her again, Orient went upstairs to the bedroom and changed clothes. He zipped a pair of knee-high, brown leather boots over faded Levi's and exchanged his shirt for a navy wool turtleneck. He looked for his pigskin jacket, but it wasn't in the closet. He went to the telephone and buzzed the intercom.

"What's up?" Sordi asked briskly.

"Is the pigskin jacket still at the cleaners?"

"Right."

"Do you have a leather jacket I can borrow?"

"Mine's being cleaned too. How about a cashmere coat?"

"Has to be leather."

"Only thing I've got is a leather vest."

"That'll do fine."

A few minutes later Sordi came up with the vest. It was a flashy cowboy model made of black leather and brown snakeskin, decorated with silver studs.

"This okay?"

"Great."

"Going to a dance?"

He smiled. "More like a costume party."

Orient realized later that his casual remark had been close to the truth. The Panther's Lair was crowded with men dressed almost identically in black leather jackets, motorcycle caps, tight jeans, and engineer boots. Most of them had the polished beaks of their caps pulled low over their eyes, giving them a menacing air. As he elbowed his way to the bar, it struck Orient that he hadn't seen a single motorcycle among the Caddies and Lincolns parked outside.

The music was loud and conversation muted in the smoky room. Unlike the determined hilarity of the other gay bars listed in Arnold's book, everyone seemed intently grim. As if they were killing time between buses. In fact, it occurred to Orient that the proprietors were intentionally trying to imitate the dreariness of an all-night terminal.

He also began to pick out some variations on the rigid dress theme. Some of the cyclists had thin chains tucked through their studded epaulets, or patches on their sleeves. A few boys were dressed in cowboy outfits.

Then he saw that the afternoon bartender wasn't on duty. The man who approached him was very tall, wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt over his weightlifter's torso, and an unfriendly frown.

Orient decided to be direct. "Jojo around yet?"

The man jerked his thumb to the end of the bar. Orient turned. There were three men standing and one sitting. He threaded through the crowd until he was at the elbow of the man who was seated.

"Jojo?" he asked, loudly enough for the others around the bar to hear.

The man sitting slowly swiveled around on his stool.

A pair of thick prescription-lensed sunglasses under the low brim of a motorcycle cap obscured the upper part of his face. A Fu Manchu moustache and pointed goatee disguised most of his mouth and chin. What could be seen of his skin was gray and pimpled.

When he spoke, his deep guttural tone seemed to carry an implied threat. "Who the hell are you?"

"A friend of mine said you could help me. I'm from the coast."

Jojo snorted. "I'm from Brooklyn. So what?"

"My friend said you might help me get acquainted."

"Which friend?"

Orient forced a genial smile. "Arnold Weber."

Jojo took a thoughtful sip from the can of beer in his hairy hand. "You just arrive?"

"About ten minutes ago."

"In town, I mean."

"A couple of days."

Jojo nodded and took another sip of beer.

"Arnold's dead," he said casually, watching Orient.

He kept his face impassive. "When?"

"Few weeks ago. They found him in the river."

"What happened?"

Jojo crushed the empty can with one hand.

"They said it was suicide." He shook his head. "Really sorry to hear that. Care for a drink?"

"Why not? Make it brandy."

When the drinks arrived, Orient lifted his glass. "To Arnold."

"Right. To Arnold." Jojo took a big swallow and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. "The crazy bastard."

He smiled. "Arnold was certainly wild."

"Yeah." Jojo nodded. "He was far-out. Always looking for the weirdest kicks, know what I mean?"

"Isn't everybody?"

Jojo grinned. "Not like Arnold. I had him for a while. He learned something from me then. He liked it as rough as it comes."

He leaned closer, peering at Orient. "Is that your scene?"

"No. I'm looking for something else. Any special reason why Arnold killed himself?"

Jojo lowered her voice slightly. "Maybe he didn't."

"Murdered?"

"Not really. You know how it is."

"You mean somebody got too rough."

The bearded man smiled. "Exactly. Where you from, anyway?"

"Malibu."

"You looking for a slave?"

"Could be."

Jojo leaned closer. "I might be able to help you out, but it'll cost. You want somebody tonight?"

"No hurry. Thought I'd get set up first."

Jojo leered knowingly. "That's smart."

"Give me your number. I'll give you a buzz tomorrow."

He shrugged, took a black business card from his pocket, and passed it to Orient.

"Jojo Escort Service" was embossed in gold letters in the center of the card. There was a number in the bottom corner.

Orient ordered another round. "So you think Arnold was killed?"

Jojo licked his lips.

"That's right. He fell in with some bad fences. They went too far out." He snapped his fingers.

"I wouldn't mind meeting some of those far-out people."

The bearded man sneered.

"No, you wouldn't. You'd end up like your friend. Arnold was freaky wild, but you're still amateur time. Stick with trade, baby." He deliberately leaned on the last word.

Orient felt his jaw muscles tense. "What are you talking about?"

Jojo chuckled. "Those boots, man. They might make it in Malibu, but here they're trash. Get with it."

Orient looked around and realized with chagrin that everyone in the place was wearing black boots. His own were brown.

"Suitcase with my regular boots got lost by the airline," he said quickly.

Jojo seemed to accept the explanation.

"What did those people do to Arnold?" Orient persisted.

"They had some kind of gadget they got from an undertaker." He smiled and licked his lips. "Ripped his guts right out."

As he spoke, Orient saw a young boy wearing a studded collar that was locked in place around his neck wander through the crowd. He was followed by a squat man whose bullet head was shaved clean and whose bulging back and shoulder muscles were draped in a leather tank top.

"They still around?" he asked casually. "Must be an interesting operation."

Jojo shook his head.

"You freaks from the coast." He drained his glass. "Nobody knows, and nobody wants to know. I like it rough, but that kind of thing is totally bad. It brings the heat right down on all of us. The cops treat us worse than rapists anyway. Most dudes around here are into the regular thing, you know, hard leather, bondage, the slave bit. But that other stuff's too much. Screws up the whole scene."

Orient noticed that despite Jojo's protests, his impassive features became a shade more animated when he discussed the killing. He understood that Jojo had no real knowledge of how Arnold died, and was filling in the details from his own complicated fantasies. It excited the sallow-skinned, bearded man to contemplate sadistic possibilities. Orient decided to string out his lust.

"There was a man on the coast," he said slowly. "He was very freaky. Branded them with an L before he killed them. Did you hear about it?"

Jojo licked his lips. "No. How'd he do it, knife or what?"

"Different ways, you know. But always the L brand. Mean anything around here?"

"L brand," Jojo repeated, savoring the concept. "First time I heard of that one. Lots of codes, though. Maybe it meant luck, eh?"

He shook his head, chuckling quietly.

The smoke and rising noise pressed in on Orient's nerves. He decided to try one more cast before leaving. "Arnold mentioned somebody here in the city he was wild about. You know who I mean? He and Arnold were pretty thick."

Jojo nodded reflectively. "You must mean Big Sal. Yeah. I can put you in touch with him. It'll cost you a dime for the number, though. You can say I sent you. Sal's very fussy."

Orient took a ten from his pocket and pushed it across the bar.

"Ninety-nine Christopher Street," Jojo mumbled, snatching up the bill. "Apartment ten."

"Thanks, I'll be in touch."

As Orient moved toward the door, a young man slipped out of his elaborately studded motorcycle jacket, revealing a leather cinch harness strapped over his smooth, thin chest. A tall man wearing a black military shirt, black leather jodhpurs, and highly polished jackboots was standing near the boy, with his back to Orient.

Something about him seemed familiar.

The standard Brando motorcycle cap was pulled low over his profile, but a large knot of white hair curled tightly at the back of the man's neck flashed in Orient's memory. When he moved closer and saw the glittering rings on the man's fingers, he was sure.

"Hello, Oliver," he said softly. "What are you doing here?"

Oliver Fish turned, pushed back the brim of his cap, and grinned. "Might ask you the same, old dear. Had I known, we would have had lots more to discuss. Come here often?"

"Not really. Is this place on your tour guide?"

"Good heavens, yes. Been coming here for years. Helps me unwind after the rigorous disciplines of tantrism, y'know. Really all a flaming sham, these nelly queens in boutique leather, but it does stimulate the imagination."

"Doesn't anyone ever get hurt for real?"

Oliver's smile faded. "From time to time. Most of it's psychodrama, though. Very little bloodletting."

He squinted at Orient. "Doing research for another film or something?"

"Just waiting for a friend."

"So are we all, eh? By the way, thanks awfully for your hospitality. Bloody sorry we had to rush off like that, but Lily was furious."

Her name set off a clamor of emotions. He wanted to change the subject but found himself asking the one question.

"How is she?"

"Oh, splendid. Heard from her this afternoon. Said she met some South American chap and might be away for the weekend." He twisted the waxed tip of his moustache. "We must have dinner soon. I've got a suite at the Irving. Right on Gramercy Park. I'll ring you up. Jolly good seeing you."

It seemed to Orient that Fish's hearty clap on the shoulder propelled him toward the door, but he really couldn't be sure. His thoughts were tumbling like dice in a cup, leaving only some dim reflex to guide him to the cool, dark quiet outside.

Chapter 11

He woke up thinking of Lily.

After a few grim moments he remembered the encounter with Fish. Trying to recall every detail, he rolled out of bed and padded to the meditation room. When he emerged, a full hour and a half later, he felt more relaxed, but only slightly less suspicious of Lily's friend.

It was true, Oliver had been in London when Arnold's body was stolen, and to physically remove a corpse from across the Atlantic was an improbable feat.

Still, a phone call could accomplish wonders, and there were two connections between Oliver and Arnold now. Perhaps he'd take the Englishman up on his dinner invitation. Making a mental note to call the Irving, he finished dressing and went down to the car.

Despite Jojo's professionally hipper-than-thou front, Orient was convinced that the bearded hustler knew nothing of significance concerning Arnold's death. He'd be useful only if he could supply more leads to Arnold's S/M friends.

As he drove downtown, he wondered how he'd approach Big Sal. His basic story of being an out-of-town friend of Arnold's, interested in making S/M contacts, had held up with Jojo, so he decided to stay with it.

The first thing that struck Orient as odd when he reached the top floor of the dingy apartment house on Christopher Street was the door. It was carved with an intricate dragon design.

The second was Big Sal himself. He was a short, grizzled Irishman in his early fifties, with sparse red hair, whose only claim to his name was an enormous belly that threatened to burst through his gamy-smelling T-shirt. He stood at the door holding a can of beer in one hand and a well-chewed cigar in the other. His flabby, freckled arms were covered with tattoos, including an intricate rendering of an enraged panther. The knuckles of his left hand spelled out the letters HARD, and his right was decorated with a club, heart, diamond, and spade design. He stared up at Orient as if extremely disappointed in what he saw.

"Who you looking for?" he rasped.

"Big Sal."

"Who are you?"

"Name's Orient. Jojo said you might be able to help me." Squinting, he stepped back, allowing Orient to pass.

A ceiling drape partially concealed a skylight, and the windows were shaded, allowing a minimum of sunlight to penetrate the interior of the apartment. "What is it you want?" Sal asked warily.

"I'm a friend of Arnold's."

Sal folded his multicolored arms. "Who?"

"Arnold Weber. I just got in from the coast. Jojo told me what happened."

"What was that?"

"He said Arnold committed suicide."

After a moment Sal nodded. "That's right. You want a beer or somethin'?"

"No thanks."

He peered unhappily at Orient. "So what did you have in mind, a little scene?"

"What kind of scenes did Arnold like?"

The paunchy man smiled. "He liked it very rough."

Still smiling, he regarded the burned-out stub of his cigar. "Something like that'll cost you extra."

He shrugged. "Did you know Arnold very well?"

The smile faded. "You're really hung up on him, aren't you?"

Orient nodded. "We became very good friends. In California. In a way, he introduced me to all this."

The man carefully set his beer can and cigar down on a low table. "I get it. A novice, right?"

"Something like that. I've been trying to learn -- "

Before he could finish, Sal approached Orient and shoved him against the door.

"All right, you skinny creep," he yelled, "you can start learning by cleaning this place up. Right now! Move! If I find any dust, I'll make you lick it off the bottom of my boots. What are you waiting for?"

Orient was more confused than hurt by the shove, but recovered quickly enough to grab the heavy engineer boot coming toward his groin and twist, throwing Sal's lumbering bulk off-balance.

To his surprise, the man didn't attempt to rise, but stamped his fists and feet against the carpet like an oversized infant.

"No, no damnit! You just can't do that," he squealed petulantly. "It isn't fair. You're not supposed to fight back, you damned bitch. You've gotta do everything I tell you."

"Wait a minute." Orient held up his hands. "I think you've made a mistake."

"You said you wanted what Arnold got. I'm gonna tell Jojo to stop sending green goods over here. I can't be bothered breaking you people in."

Glaring at Orient, Sal struggled to his feet, lurched to the table, and took a long swallow from the beer can.

"Look, I didn't come over here for any action right now," Orient explained calmly. "Arnold was a friend of mine. He mentioned your name as somebody he liked very much. I thought you might be able to tell me why he killed himself."

Sal's puffy, red-lined eyes darted between anger and greed. Greed won.

"Scene or no scene, it'll cost for my time, mother," he snapped. "I've got clients who give me twenty-five just to talk dirty to them."

Orient took three tens from his pocket and dropped them on the table. "Tell me about Arnold instead."

Sal picked up the money. "Sure you don't want a beer?"

Orient accepted, and the rotund little man left the room, came back with two cold cans, sat down, and motioned for him to do the same.

"I was Arnold's first real S lover," he announced, modestly regarding the unlit end of a fresh cigar. "For a while he was supporting me. You know how it is."

Orient didn't, but he nodded.

Sal scratched the white stubble on his pudgy chin and burped discreetly.

"I always knew Arnold was gonna end up bad," he mused. "Crazy. Never satisfied, you know? Always wanting me to hurt him more. Askin' me to cut him with a knife, that kind of thing."

He shook his head in disgust. "M creeps. That's why I won't have one around steady anymore. They're really destructive bastards. First on themselves, and then everything around them. They deserve all the grief they get."

"Did Arnold get something he didn't ask for?"

Sal squinted warily.

"Maybe. Who the hell knows? Crazy queen like Arnold."

"There were rumors around the Panther's Lair," Orient murmured. "They said he might have been murdered."

"They're cheap around that place." Sal drained the contents of his can. "So maybe somebody took him up on the knife thing, then dumped him. So what? He was asking for it anyway. He was frantic. He was bound to snuff himself if he couldn't get somebody to do it for him. He wanted it harder and weirder every night. Like the time he brings home a machete."

Orient was beginning to see that beyond a blow-by-blow description of Arnold and Sal's romantic life there was little the grizzled man could add to what he already knew.

"Did you ever brand him?" he ventured.

"He never thought of that one. And I wouldn't have done it to him," Sal exclaimed indignantly. "I don't want that kind of responsibility."

"Ever hear of people who do?"

"Sure. Brands, razor scars, anything you want goes in this town. But not here, baby. I don't need that kind of trouble."

"How about an L brand? Ever hear of somebody using that kind of code?"

Sal shrugged. "Like I said, anything goes with some freaks. I knew a dude who got off burning four-leaf clovers on his boy's ass. Then he runs out of space and starts working on his legs."

"Could the L be somebody's initials?"

"Maybe." Sal spread his tattooed hands. "Can't think of anybody right now. There's a lot of faces on this scene."

Orient dropped his card on the table. "There's more money in it if you can think of who it might be."

Sal frowned at the card. "Doctor, eh? What are you, some kind of social worker?"

"Just a friend of Arnold's looking for the truth about what happened to him."

"You just might have to wait and ask Arnold himself for that one," Sal snorted.

Orient left without mentioning that he'd already tried that approach.

He took a long walk through the colorful West Village streets trying to piece together the stray facets of Arnold's short but complicated life. From home, to profession, to social preferences, he emerged as an aggressive, intelligent, compulsive, charming, driven youth with an enormous appetite for self-destruction. Both Jojo and the male prostitute Sal confirmed that he was reputed to be excessive, even for a masochist. If it weren't for the psychic attack and the fact that his body was stolen, he'd almost be inclined to agree with the medical examiner's official conclusion.

But even though the information he'd gathered thus far was meager, his instincts told him that eventually the S/M underground would reveal much more about Arnold's death.

When he returned to the Ghost, he flipped through the address book. The next three numbers were those of business firms, all of which were closed on Saturday. He called the Irving Hotel and was told that Oliver Fish was out.

The next item in Arnold's book was the single name Pye, and a number. As he drove toward the West Side Drive he pushed the dial buttons on the phone.

"Hello," a smooth feminine voice answered. "This is Memphis Pye. May I help you?"

"My name is Owen Orient. If I'm not imposing, I'd like to make an appointment to see you. This afternoon if possible."

To his surprise, the voice on the other end accepted his explanation without question.

"I can see you in an hour if you wish."

"Fine. What's the address?"

"One-fifty-five East Sixty-second," the voice informed him crisply.

"See you at five." As Orient replaced the receiver, he wondered if he'd made a date for an expensive haircut.

He expected to have enough time for a late lunch, but an accident on the elevated highway delayed him. Still berating his decision to take the scenic route, he arrived fifteen minutes late, and was gratified to see a black Mercedes pulling out of a spot directly in front of his destination.

The exterior of the tree-shaded brownstone revealed nothing of its tenant's occupation, nor did the name on the ivy-covered wrought-iron gate leading to a basement apartment.

He was buzzed through the gate, then checked by intercom and peephole before being allowed through the inner door.

"Sorry for the third degree, Mr. Orient, but this is New York City," a rich, lilting voice explained.

Orient found himself staring at a very tall, ivory-skinned woman with clear purple eyes and shining ebony hair. When he tried to answer, he found his lips were dry.

"I do hope you brought your birth certificate," she said, ushering him into the flat.

When Orient stepped inside, he understood what she meant, and the nature of their appointment.

He was standing at one end of a long, beam-ceilinged room, whose far wall was made of partitioned glass, overlooking a hothouse garden of tangled green plants and boldly colored flowers. A white grand piano stood in one corner, and a hammock hung invitingly in the other. The couches and chairs were covered with deep-dyed homespun fabrics which provided vivid contrast to the white wall-to-wall carpet. A striking metal mobile of the solar system hung from the ceiling, and the walls were decorated with star charts, quadrant graphs, and medieval etchings of zodiac signs.

Memphis Pye needed his birth certificate because she was an astrologer.

"You did bring it?"

"No, but I'll be able to give you all the information you'll need. To the second."

She grinned.

"That's a huge relief. You wouldn't believe the clients who barge in here demanding to know their future, as if I'm some sort of tea-leaf reader, and then can't tell me exactly what time they were born."

He watched her walk across the room to a massive desk cut from a swirl-textured, nut-brown tree trunk. She was barefoot and wearing a finely woven tunic that clung to the strong, fluid curves of her body. Her straight black hair swept back from her high, creamy forehead, and softly angled brows framed her wide purple eyes. Seen against the exotic profusion of the hothouse just outside, she could have been an Inca maiden gliding through the jungle.

"How about some coffee?" She made it sound special. "I don't allow anything stronger during business hours."

"Coffee's fine." He sat down in a deep leather-and-chrome chair on one side of the desk.

She handed him a steaming glazed mug. "I take it you know something about astrology, Mr. Orient."

"A little." He gave her his card. "I'm in the same sort of business."

Her smile was both delighted and shy. "Are you a clairvoyant, doctor?"

He smiled and shook his head. "Just scientific research. No fortune cookies."

She curled up in her chair, holding her shoulders like an excited child.

"I'm afraid I'm more interested in hearing about your institute than casting your chart. But maybe we'd better get started."

Orient was aware that her interest was suddenly important to him.

After jotting down the date and exact hour of his birth, she asked him a few tentative questions about his background. She didn't press, but gently drew him out, and he was surprised to hear his answers flowing easily.

"Now, let's see," she mused, closing one eye and extending her thumb. "You're a Scorpio, Libra cusp, born in New York. You won't say when, but you graduated from Stanford very early. Probably a prodigy. Then medical school in Switzerland and a psychiatric practice before the trip from London to Tibet. Now your institute for psychic research, and a filmmaking career. If I were doing your portrait, it would definitely be mixed-media collage."

"And you're an astrologer with a green thumb and a trace of a northern European accent," he countered. "Could be Dutch."

"Right, sir. My compliments to your ear. I lived in Holland until I was twenty. And here I thought my American was perfect."

"Too perfect. Americans invariably have some verbal quirk, either regional or personal."

"Now you're one up on me." She made a face. "I'd better make up your chart and see what I'm in for."

She switched on an overhead spotlight concealed in one of the beams, pulled an electronic calculator closer, and placed a sheet of transparent graph paper over a map of the heavens.

As she worked, Orient wandered about the room examining the etchings and other objects, but found his attention constantly diverted to the ebony-haired astrologer.

Despite her striking beauty, she had a shy, almost sheltered manner that seemed to relax his own defenses. He couldn't remember when he'd felt so at ease with another human being.

"Well, okay," Memphis murmured. "I've got the primary profile pretty well worked out."

She smiled.

"Of course, I'll take at least a week before I compile an entire survey. I refuse to use a computer. Do you want a half-year, year, or lifetime reading? The lifetime's expensive, but it comes as a large book, hand-illustrated and leather-bound. It's only three thousand dollars."

"How much is the six-month plan?" Orient asked calmly but quickly.

"Seeing as how you're in the trade, an even hundred, plus tax, for an in-depth profile and calendar."

"Wrap it up."

"Great. Will you eat it here, or shall I send it?"

"I'll take it with me. I don't enjoy profiles until they've been on ice for a while." Memphis slipped some sheets of paper into a bright red envelope. "That's always wise. A handful of salt usually helps them go down easier, too. But I would pay close attention to my daily charts when you get them. I'm not boasting idly when I say they're unusually accurate. I have a way with creative math."

As she handed him the envelope, he saw the engraving of a large black pie, with a slice cut out, in one corner.

"I'll forever remember you as the one male who didn't tell me I was the apple of his eye." She folded his check, tossed it on the desk, and extended an ivory hand. "It's been nice meeting you. I wish... well, perhaps we can talk again."

When their hands touched, she glanced up at him, as if startled by the contact. She moistened her lips and took a deep breath.

"You are going somewhere? I mean... well... now that business hours are finished, we could have a cheese omelet and wine. If you're hungry, that is. Or do you already have an appointment?" Her clear purple eyes hovered between embarrassment and disappointment.

Orient grinned. "I haven't any appointments, and I'm crazy about cheese omelets."

She grinned back.

"Just wait right here." She went into the next room and reappeared in fifteen minutes with a tray full of food.

"Memphis Pye's zodiac and quick snack service," she announced. "The eggs are hot and the wine's cold."

For the next few hours they ate, drank, and discussed their mutual admiration for seashores, John Coltrane, Fred Astaire, yoga, chess, orange juice, Magister Ludi, Frank Capra, Thelonius Monk, the New York Knickerbockers, North by Northwest, Harpo Marx, and the joys of isolation.

"My friends have given up on me, I'm afraid," she admitted ruefully. "But sitting talking about other people's lives seems like such a waste of time."

Memphis shrugged and spread her tapering ivory fingers.

"You just can't buy time anywhere. And there're so many fascinating things to do, like riding a bicycle around the city, exploring the Amazon, learning to play backgammon, or just growing flowers. Anything as long as it's outside yourself."

She moved gracefully around the room as she spoke, a puzzled smile accentuating her pink lips and determined chin. Even when she was making a strong point, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. She had the serenely gracious charm of a mature woman. Orient guessed she was about thirty-eight. But older or younger, it made no difference. Being with Memphis was as easy as drinking water.

"I guess I just enjoy my own company," she went on. "Like to putter out there with my blooms. I rarely see anyone except clients."

She looked up, head cocked to one side.

"By the way, I never did ask, did I? Who recommended me to you?"

The question grounded him abruptly. His original purpose for the visit had drifted away as they talked. He'd almost forgotten the investigation. At the same time, he noted without displeasure that he'd neglected to think about Lily's departure for at least two hundred straight minutes.

"A friend of mine recommended you. Some time ago. Arnold Weber."

She folded her arms and smiled. "Odd. I never would have associated you two as friends."

"Well, really, I'm more a friend of the family," he admitted.

"He's such an irresponsible client. He came three times without his birth certificate. I suppose he's got too many other things on his mind."

"He's dead," Orient said reluctantly. "Happened a few weeks ago."

She shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they were the color of misty heather.

"I'm sorry. Was he ill?"

"Suicide."

She nodded slowly. "Always so nervous. Did you know him well?"

"Not well enough. Did he ever say or do anything that seemed strange? Perhaps he had a special problem."

"Oh, he had plenty of those." She shook her head. "I attributed it to the fact that he was a Gemini ruled by Mars. And a New Yorker by profession. I guess my judgment was too casual."

"Anything unusual about his horoscope?"

She shrugged.

"There were lots of forces pulling and pushing in his particular case, but who can say for sure? I never predict anything. All I can do is advise which days, sometimes which hours, are beneficial, and which aren't. The rest depends on how the client wants to handle that information." She sat down next to him. "As a matter of fact, I've been meaning to warn you. I took a peek, and today isn't your most favorable conjunction."

"As you said, it's all in how a client wants to handle his conjunctions."

"I'm so glad you feel that way." Her pale skin colored slightly, and she lowered her eyes. "And I'm really happy you didn't have anything to do this evening."

He was just about to agree when he remembered his promise to Sybelle. With reluctance he picked up the large red envelope and hefted it thoughtfully.

"Spoke too soon. I've got a friend waiting. Thanks for the snack and sympathy." He took her hand: "I'll see you again when the chart's ready. Soon, I hope. Perhaps we can have dinner."'

The brief disappointment in her eyes became a burst of violet radiance.

"I'll work extra fast," she promised. "And I'll leave with you. I need some things from the drugstore."

She paused at the closet near the door to slip into a pair of thong sandals and an oversize oatmeal sweater.

As they left, she apologized for the number of locks on the door. "I'm really not paranoid, but this is such a violent country."

"I don't know if it's just America," he said enthusiastically, as she bridged one of his favorite theories. "It seems to be an escalating factor worldwide. Darwin's line between the first organism and the ape is quite long compared to the line between the ape and man. And not all humans evolve at the same rate. What happens is that the world's technological advances are developed by the evolved few, then invariably misused by their more primitive brothers. It's amazing that as we near the twenty-first century, the main business of governments is warfare and control, instead of education."

He shook his head sadly.

"But of course that's what most people seem to want, along with bread and circuses."

Memphis gave him a round of silent applause, then took his arm.

"I stand corrected," she said softly. "And educated."

He inhaled the scent of lavender exuding from her smooth, shining hair.

"I always talk too much, or too little." He stopped and looked at her. "Are you going far? I can give you a lift."

"No, thanks, it's just around the corner."

"I'll go with you." As he spoke, Orient noticed that the Rolls was standing at an odd, listing angle at the curb.

"I think I've got a flat tire," he said, with some surprise.

He was right. The left-rear tire was completely deflated.

"Slashed," he muttered ruefully, after inspecting the wheel. "Some kids probably took a liking to it. I guess you were right about my conjunctions today, after all."

"Oh, dear, I am sorry, Owen. You do have a spare, no?"

"Yes. Luckily I ran across one a few months ago." He opened the trunk. "It'll be an adventure finding another."

Shivering slightly in the chill night breeze, Memphis stood holding the flashlight, while he rolled the tire around the back of the car. As he reached down beneath the fender for the special jack, it occurred to Orient that her nearness almost made the senseless vandalism bearable.

"Well, that's interesting," she exclaimed, coming closer. "A built-in, pull-down jack."

"One of the designer's pet innovations," he grunted, crouching down in the street. "Actually, it's workable only for cars that sit high off the ground."

As he spoke, Orient heard a rumbling, like distant thunder. The rumbling rose to a sudden clap of noise that shattered his thoughts.

A squeal of brakes, screech of tires, and warning scream jolted his reflexes, but before he could scramble underneath the car, something clamped his shoulder, dragging him along the rough asphalt.

For a few long seconds there was nothing except a fading whine. Then a thick silence covered his senses.

"Owen? Say something, please... are you hurt?"

The softly urging voice drew his fractured awareness together. He was lying in the narrow space between the Rolls and the car parked behind. He felt a dull pressure on his arm and realized that Memphis still had a strong grip on his arm.

"I'm all right, I think," he told her, sitting up very slowly.

"That fool almost ran you over," she whispered vehemently.

He felt her trembling and put his arm around her.

"Thanks for pulling me out of there." He kissed her gently. "If it weren't for you, I'd be part of the pavement right now."

"That drunken fool." She pressed her face against his chest.

"Maybe. Did you notice what kind of car it was?" He got to his feet, pulling her up with him.

"Not really. Black sedan, I think. Can't really be sure. The headlights were out."

"That's odd, isn't it?"

Her flawless ivory forehead wrinkled with disbelieving fear.

"You don't think it was deliberate?" she asked slowly.

"Might have been an accident," he granted. "But whoever slashed this tire did it deliberately."

He looked at her. "Perhaps it was a way of getting me to sit out on this quiet street for a while. Like a duck."

Chapter 12

Henry considered himself fortunate.

It was unlikely he'd have been executed, even if the failure had been entirely his fault. Wehrner's case was special. His younger brother had acted without authority, on some egotistical impulse. However, Christian himself had ordered this last operation and approved the plan.

Still, the ways of the New Man were above those of mere mortals. The fates of Schamballah had smiled upon him when Christian decided to go along in the car. He'd been able to see for himself what went wrong, and why.

The trap had been simple, but foolproof. They were even prepared for the possibility that the obstructionist would call a garage. But he hadn't.

Conditions were perfect when they moved to deactivate. The woman had been an unforeseen, nonavoidable variable.

Henry's pride continued to nag at the logic, however. He'd wanted to be the one to eliminate Orient. For Christian, his god, master, and lover.

He buried the anxiety in his methodical preparations for the coming match. Over the years, his precompetition chores had become an intense ritual. The placement of each piece of tape on his ankles, the unrolling of his socks, the powdering of his feet, the different lacings for his right and left shoes -- each act was performed in sequence, this sequence being as significant as the acts themselves. He understood that it extended beyond the necessity to win the match. It was his personal ritual to the perfection of his body.

Since childhood he'd celebrated a solemn concern for his physical well-being. It had begun when he understood that his sole purpose for existence was to serve the sacred will of the trinity. Every ache, pull, or bruise was a threat to his usefulness. For years he'd practiced discipline upon discipline, proud of the feats he dared himself to attempt and accomplish. But he was proudest of the fact that his body gave Christian pleasure.

There was still almost an hour before the match, and the armory was almost empty. Henry liked this time best.

Undisturbed, he could concentrate on each stroke of an imaginary match with his opponent, while he adjusted the tension of his rackets and added tape to the handles.

The scenarios varied, depending on the strength of his opponent. Tonight he was playing the Dutchman, for a purse of twenty thousand, winner take all. It was a private match arranged by Christian and his friends for their own amusement, and Henry didn't want to disappoint them. Hundreds of thousands would bet on the match, but more important, his performance was Christian's leverage as he extended the invisible power of the trinity.

For this reason he envisioned a match where he was humiliated by the Dutchman, forced to endure dishonest tactics, insults, and prejudicial calls by the linesmen.

He controlled his wild rage, storing it in his mind like a viper filling its sacs with venom. He mentally replayed another version of the match, in which he was injured halfway through the first set, jeered throughout by the Dutchman, and booed roundly by the crowd after his loss.

Then he began his warm-up exercises, relaxing the tension he'd deliberately introduced into his muscles. These too he performed in set sequence, beginning with his toes and ankles, and progressing over each bend and connection in his body, until he reached his wrists and fingers. After that he put on his socks and laced his shoes, both tasks executed right to left. By the time the basement lockers started echoing with activity, he was comfortably ready.

He went upstairs to the court, avoiding the usual competitors' amenities. The stands were still empty, and no one was on the floor. A good omen.

He took his time arranging his equipment next to the high white chair, making sure that his rackets, witch hazel, towels, wrist bands, and thermos of herb tea and honey were all displayed in proper order, like the things in his military foot locker at home.

Then he took some balls from his bag and picked up his practice racket, the heavy one. If it felt good, he'd use it right through the first game, before switching to one that was slightly lighter. If he was running ahead, he'd use it until the third set before going to the aluminum racket. The metal one was very light and longer-handled, and some nights when he was getting full extension on his arm, it handled like a whip.

Carefully he hefted and twisted the heavy racket, warming up his elbow. Then he took a few practice cuts. After that he was ready to hit some balls.

He lazily let the first few go into the net, taking it extra slow on his arm and making it easy to retrieve the balls. Actually, the simple act of retrieving those first few balls gave him valuable contact with the floor itself, making the court familiar.

Since there was still plenty of time, he jumped the net to the other side and hit a few light taps from there before settling down and warming up in earnest.

He hit a dozen serves, coiling and uncoiling his body like a machine with its switch on low, thinking of nothing except his own rhythm of muscle and reflex. Crossing over, he served a stronger dozen, then walked very slowly back to his area.

As he wiped his face with a towel, he looked around and saw that the stands were filling with spectators. There were a few women, but most of the seats were being occupied by expensively attired men.

After instructing the ball boys on the proper way of delivering to him -- one bounce, and one bounce only -- Henry began thinking about the Dutchman again, and the way he'd been abused, victimized, and outraged. Seconds became mental months of dedicated training for this moment of vengeance.

The Dutchman was late, another form of insult.

Apparently he didn't feel the need for promptness when playing an inferior.

Henry was careful to keep his expression blank, as he wound his seething hatred of the Dutchman like a spring. Outwardly he was the same loose-limbed, fresh-skinned model of American boyhood whose emotionless features were so highly prized by soft-drink companies, advertising agencies, and rich men.

Scanning the stands, he saw that the match had drawn some of the most influential people in the city. They stood in preening knots, bartering for the attention of the beautiful boys parading disdainfully through the aisles.

Wildestein was just above, with his usual entourage, intently discussing something with one of the bookmakers. Henry knew that he'd taken Wehrner's loss very hard. For weeks Wildestein had been haunting the matches, betting huge sums against Christian, and losing heavily. No doubt he had a bundle on the Dutchman. Henry used the knowledge to fuel his smoldering rage. He'd burst his own heart before allowing the Jew to profit from any lapse in his game.

The Dutchman came out on the floor and greeted him cordially. Henry was coolly polite, knowing that the smiles were a ruse to dull his competitive edge. The Dutchman was out to make a fool of him in front of all these people, before the men who were important associates of Christian's and the framework for the Fourth Reich's coming domination. Most likely the Jew had supplied the Dutchman with stimulants to assist in the task.

Christian hadn't arrived by the time the match began, but when the first ball was served, Henry's mind emptied of everything except the need to destroy the Dutchman.

He was ruthless. It seemed as if he never took a backward step. He exploded on every volley, leaving the Dutchman stunned. He won the first two games by love scores, and went into the third feeling stronger than when he'd started. The swollen fury flooded through his body, as he lunged and dived for impossible shots, drawing the crowd to their feet time after time.

The first set was over quickly. The Dutchman began clowning, trying to glue his shattered nerve, but Henry ignored his antics in favor of sharply admonishing the ball boy for a poor toss at a crucial moment.

He opened the second set with three straight aces and heard a murmur ripple through the crowd, as if they were reaching for their coats. Just fine, he gloated; they'd have more time to tell their cronies how Christian's boy had chopped the Dutchman to pieces.

But after taking the second game, he glanced up into the stands and realized he'd been premature. The crowd was stirred for another reason. Christian had arrived with his new friend.

Henry's eyes narrowed. He understood that no mortal could question the actions of the New Man, but Christian's golden-skinned companion sent pangs of resentment darting through his emotions.

Rather than adding to his carefully stoked rage, however, it scattered it, throwing him off-balance, and he double-faulted away the next game. A few errors in judgment gave the Dutchman the third as well. There was a new sound around him now, the exhilarated hum of a mob sniffing a competitor's impending collapse.

Kneeling down off the base line, he pretended to tie his shoelace, all the while keeping his eyes on the Dutchman's flushed, grinning face. He imagined that same face triumphant with victory, laughing at him along with everyone else. He filled his mind with the image, until its weight displaced every other thought.

A last-instant flick of reflex turned a sure ace for the Dutchman into a winning volley and drew the momentum back to him. Henry wore his adversary down, returning even brilliant shots with savage quickness. His endurance never wavered, and his concentration bore down deeper with each point, like a jeweler's drill.

In the end, he finished the Dutchman with an anticlimactic brace of aces.

He acknowledged the thunderous applause with an unconcerned wave, and nodded to show Christian he understood they'd meet at the usual place. He returned the kiss blown to him by the beautiful copper-haired female clinging to Christian's arm with a wide smile and mock bow.

Henry knew he could afford the gallantry.

Only two moon periods remained before the Fourth Reich of the New Man achieved its predestined rule, and he'd be invested with the full power of the trinity. Until then, he'd bide his time.

The rage that he'd built up for the match was still bubbling through his brain as he watched her pulling at Christian, posturing sensuously, like the elegant whore she was.

Whether she was there by grace or design or desire made no difference to him. Henry vowed he'd break her with the same relentless hate he had used to overwhelm the Dutchman. His fury would be as rabid as that of the sacred skull itself, until he'd succeeded in prying Lady Lilith Sativa from the side of his beloved Christian.

Chapter 13

As Orient drove home, he wondered if it wouldn't be wiser to buy himself a motorcycle outfit and begin exploring the leather bars on his own, without Jojo's help.

This week alone, the bearded hustler had sent him on three unusual but useless appointments. Not only had it consumed valuable time, it had cost him a good chunk of cash.

He'd undertaken a grimly methodical schedule since the night he'd almost been run down. Every day he was up at eight, out of the meditation room and on his way by nine, and back whenever his interviews with Arnold's S/M friends were finished, usually after midnight.

So far he'd turned up nothing of significance. Strangely enough, the only factor that kept his enthusiasm high was the fact that there'd been an attempt on his life. The combination of a slashed tire and runaway car with no lights was too perfect to have been accidental. It was more logical to assume he was getting too close to the truth for someone's comfort.

He'd also made several attempts to contact Oliver Fish, and was finally told that he'd checked out of the hotel, leaving a London forwarding address. Again, there were too many coincidental factors concerning the Englishman to let the matter rest there, including his presence at the Panther's Lair and the skull-headed stick. He'd already decided he'd go to London and look Oliver up if his efforts in New York proved fruitless.

The only bright spots in the relentless routine were his visits with Memphis Pye. He'd dropped in to visit or spoken to her on the phone almost daily since they'd met. Her undemanding good humor and natural understanding refilled his drained emotions. He also found that the knowledge that there were many things he couldn't yet share with Memphis was beginning to wear down his patience.

Because of the intensity of the investigation, he hadn't been able to spend much more than two hours at a time with her, but with each passing day the desire to be closer to the serene, ivory-skinned astrologer doubled like grains on the fabled chessboard, and would soon be too great to contain. He wondered if she felt the same pressures.

Memphis could be distant without being cold, and managed to retain a certain shyness, even while sharing a confidence. He couldn't tell if her enthusiasm for his calls was based on friendship or something deeper.

Right now it wasn't a problem, but in a few months, or perhaps even days, it would be, Orient speculated, swinging the long, gleaming hood of the Ghost through the automatically activated garage doors.

When he entered the study, Sordi was waiting with some warm sandwiches, cold salad, fresh juice, and a pale blue envelope.

Opening it, he found a blue-crested invitation to attend a reception on Sunday evening at the home of Baron Christian Orgaz in honor of his favored house guest Lady Lilith Sativa.

Sordi poured him some juice. "I got one too. I recognized Lily's handwriting."

Orient nodded glumly. "Should be quite an affair. But I may not have time."

"Be a shame to miss a good party," Sordi observed diplomatically, but Orient caught his disapproving tone.

"How's the film going?" he asked, trying to avoid the subject.

"Okay, okay. The final cut is almost there. What about this friend of yours that keeps calling? Memphis. Why not take her to the party?"

"Depends on how things work out."

He turned his attention to the food. But as he ate, his thoughts drifted back to Lily. He wondered if Baron Orgaz was the South American friend Fish had mentioned. He also considered the reason for her invitation. It somehow pleased him that the conjecture had little effect on his appetite.

Over coffee, however, the certainty that Lily was trying to hurt him began to burden his understanding. While earlier he'd been tempted to take Sordi's suggestion, he now wanted only to forget that part of his life.

After a few hours he knew he couldn't.

Indifference grew to sadness at his inability to communicate his love to Lily. The frustration was compounded by a fear that he'd never be able to maintain a complete relationship with another human being. His position as an adept in the occult hierarchy and his scientific work with telepathy were looming obstacles because of their demand for secrecy. Even his embryonic friendship with Memphis was being aborted by an inability to be normally candid.

Actually, Memphis was one of the few people he'd known who could put him at ease, making him feel that his need for privacy was natural. More than ever he was grateful for her accepting, soothing qualities. As he drifted off to sleep, however, he was still thinking about Lily.

He awoke early the next morning, as usual, and was just on his way out when the phone stopped him.

"Good morning, darling," Sybelle cooed. "Are you up?"

"Up and away. Need something?"

"Can you stop at my place? I'm sure you haven't had breakfast."

When Orient got there, he found a table loaded with rich treats, from cheesecake to creamed strawberries. The moist aroma of hot buns complemented the deep scent of coffee.

"Now, take your time, dear," Sybelle advised as she served. "I just can't wait to hear what Jojo had for you this week."

Orient filled her in. Lately he'd been making it a point to tell her everything he'd discovered about Arnold's associates, or more precisely, what he hadn't discovered.

"Jojo sent me to see two more male prostitutes and one dedicated masochist. All of them wanted more money than originally agreed upon, and none of them could tell me anything about Arnold except for the usual information that he was unusually self-destructive. Not one of them knew anything about the L brand," he added morosely. "I've been considering going back to the Panther's Lair and just hanging around for a week or so. Perhaps I can pick up a lead somehow."

"It's too bad I can't go with you on your little excursions," Sybelle mused, examining the green lacquer on her fingernails. "But I suppose it wouldn't work out. When are you going to let me see the master chart you're making?"

"Anytime. How about tomorrow night?"

"Oh, er..." Sybelle hesitated, somewhat flustered. "You see, darling, er... Lily sent me an invitation, some reception or other."

She folded her hands innocently. "I thought you knew."

He smiled.

"Forgot it's Sunday tomorrow. Lily sent me an invitation to the same reception. Know anything about her host?"

As he asked, Orient became aware that he was unduly anxious about her answer.

"Very little. But I must say he sounds fascinating. I heard from a few friends that he's from South America somewhere. A sportsman. Owns some tennis team or something."

Her enthusiasm prodded the depression that awoke in his thoughts at the mention of the invitation.

"You are going, aren't you?"

He spread his hands. "Depends on the investigation."

"Now, Owen, darling, do take a night off and go. It's much better to just face up to these things, even if it seems ridiculous. Take it from a woman of great experience." She reflectively primped her frizzy halo of hennaed hair. "It is in rather doubtful taste to invite one's ex to a party so soon after. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"What's it supposed to be telling me?" he asked, staring into his empty coffee cup.

"Well, don't you see? She wants to make you jealous. That means she's still in love with you, darling. Lily would never be so blatant otherwise. It's her way of getting your attention."

He put the cup on the table and stood up.

"All she has to do is dial my number," he reminded. "She can even get me when I'm stuck in traffic."

But later, as he drove downtown to meet Jojo, Orient's thoughts warmed to the possibility, melting the intense melancholy brought on by Lily's gesture.

Jojo was late, as usual. He called the coffee shop where Orient was waiting and explained that he was tied up at the motor-vehicle bureau. They arranged another appointment at a place called Bradley's on University Place.

Orient arrived early and found that, for once, Jojo had picked a decent spot to meet. The dark wood bar, excellent paintings hanging on the walls, and casually elegant atmosphere relaxed him as he sipped a cold beer with lime and waited.

When Jojo arrived, he was bristling with indignation.

"Can you believe it? They got me for twelve parking tickets. And I already paid off somebody in the department to squash them. Now I gotta pay a fine on top."

He unzipped his motorcycle jacket, tipped the Brando cap back on his head, and ordered a vodka on the rocks, still grumbling about the inequities of dishonest fixers. When it was served, he downed it quickly.

"You know, doc, you're the weirdest John I ever met," he observed, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. "My boys tell me you pay, and then all you wanna do is talk about Arnold. What is it you get off behind that kind of thing? You got some kind of necrophile number? I know an undertaker in Brooklyn, but it'll cost you plenty."

"No thanks."

"Then what? You've seen all the trade in my stable. Maybe you'd like to hit some Jersey spots. I know some types in Newark you might dig."

He shook his head. "No more trade, Jojo."

"Then what?" The indignant tone returned to his rumbling voice.

Orient smiled. "I'm interested in finding out who did Arnold in."

Jojo regarded him carefully, sallow face impassive behind the dark glasses and beard. "A cop, right?"

"Wrong. Just a friend. Maybe this will be easier for you to understand. If you can find out anything about somebody who uses an L brand, I'm willing to pay well for the information."

"How much?"

"Two hundred."

"Make it three. How about something in front? I've gotta make some rounds." Orient gave him twenty. "That's it until you come up with something I can use."

Jojo scooped up the money. "How about dropping me uptown in that slick short of yours, doc? The bastards impounded my car."

After leaving Jojo on Forty-second Street, Orient continued uptown to Memphis' apartment. She greeted him with eyes shining like tinted opals, and good news.

"A couple came in and decided to take three lifetime charts. One for their child. A month's hard work, and I'll be able to afford a long vacation." She kissed him gently on the cheek. "Do you want some sandwiches and coffee? Better yet, how about orange juice?"

"Juice is fine." He slipped off his shoes and crawled into the hammock. "Long day?"

"Just unproductive." He took a cigarette from his case and watched her through half-closed eyes as he smoked. Her long black hair was woven into a single braid, emphasizing the soft, classic contours of her face, and her calm smile radiated the serenity of a Modigliani portrait.

"Where do you think you'll go on your vacation?" he asked casually.

"Will you miss me?"

"Very much."

She handed him a tall glass of juice and stood just behind him, gently rocking the hammock.

"Want to come along?"

He considered the burning tip of his cigarette.

"Don't know if I can."

She leaned over and took the cigarette from his hand. "Anything you can tell me about?"

He inhaled the lavender scent of her skin. "Just a tight work schedule."

The explanation didn't work. Memphis stopped rocking the hammock and looked at him, a curl of blue smoke obscuring her puzzled smile.

"Are you married, Owen?" she asked softly. "I don't want to pry, but I'm growing very fond of you. I just want to know how much I should like. That's fair, isn't it?"

He sat up.

"Fair enough." For a moment he studied the intricate network of lines in his aged palms.

"I'm not married, Memphis," he told her. "But there is someone. Or rather, there was."

She sat down next to him on the hammock and passed him the cigarette. "Want to talk about her?"

It took him a couple of hours, but with some light prompting and a few discreet questions, he managed to tell Memphis about his relationship with Lily. As he explained what had happened, it all seemed somehow clearer, and he understood that their break was inevitable.

"We just had opposite ideas of how to live. I don't enjoy going out on endless chains of dinners and parties, talking about money, or other people's lives." He shook his head and leaned back.

"I'm happier working on my experiments and seeing a few close friends than standing in a crowded room listening to someone rapping about his super sex life or why he dislikes his wife and mother. That's the crux of it. I don't feel the need to share my privacy with a stranger. There's no reason for it that I can see. I wouldn't even recommend it as therapy."

"I know." Memphis sighed. "People want to discuss the most intimate details as soon as they say hello. They seem to be looking for things to fill them from outside. But the funny thing is, they discard everything before examining it. All that seems to count is getting attention, no matter what."

"That's what they call society," he mused unhappily, "and whatever it is, I don't understand it."

"One thing I can't understand is why Lily was so anxious for you to participate in that ritual of hers. Since you didn't object to what she was doing, why was she so insistent about you?"

Orient shrugged. "That was it, really. We probably could have worked things out, except for the tantric rite. Maybe it's what occasionally happens in religiously mixed marriages, but I'm not sure. Lily seemed to feel the trouble was my sexual guilt."

Memphis cocked her head to one side. "Was it?"

He smiled. "Care to find out?"

Her eyes became a violet mist, and warm fingers brushed his cheek. "Not yet, Owen. Not until we're both sure."

Reluctantly, he agreed. It was too soon. He'd adjusted to Lily's absence, but she still lingered in his presence.

"Are you going to the reception?" Memphis asked hesitantly.

"Maybe. I haven't decided."

"Do you want an interested opinion?"

"Go ahead."

"That's it. Go ahead and go. Obviously she wants you there." He folded his arms. "Want to go with me?"

Her laugh was both relieved and triumphant. "As a matter of fact, I was hoping you'd ask. I'm a firm believer in meeting my rivals. What time?"

Later, while driving home, Orient felt much better. His talk with Memphis had dissolved the confusion, and he understood that much of what went wrong was caused by Lily's own problems rather than some personal insufficiency. He simply wasn't a social animal, and really hadn't time for the tantric experiments. Short of giving in completely, there'd been no way to resolve their differences. However, he was careful not to become too optimistic, knowing that his emotions, so carefully balanced now, could tumble as soon as he saw Lily again.

The next day Sordi acquired a last-minute pair of tickets for a New York Knick basketball game, and Orient took the afternoon off and went with him. The seats were good, and he happily lost himself in the competitive ballet of reflex and timing for a couple of hours, but as they drove back home to change for the reception, his anxieties began to mount.

That evening, when they stopped to pick up Sybelle, her excitement at meeting Memphis was almost aggressive.

"Why, dear, you're lovely," she gushed as she climbed into the Ghost.

"I'm so glad we've finally met. Owen is positively sphinx-like when it comes to telling me anything. But of course, everything he did tell me was very nice," she added hastily. "And I can see he was quite accurate."

"Well, perhaps he's not as bad as you think." Memphis smiled. "He told me lots of interesting things about you. And your special talents."

Sybelle adjusted a black lace shawl over her richly sequined shoulders. "Well, how heartening. But I hope he didn't exaggerate. There're at least two other mediums in America who can conduct a legitimate seance or use a Skrying glass. Not in New York, of course. But you're also in the profession. I have heard this and that about you in my travels. They say you're one of the most competent astrologers in the business. Where did you study?"

"In Amsterdam."

"Oh, then you must know Count Germaine."

"No." Memphis glanced at Orient. "Should I?"

He shrugged and watched the road, not entirely comfortable under Sybelle's immediate barrage.

"Oh, he's a fascinating man. Quite a brilliant psychic," she was saying. "And a good friend of Lily's."

She smiled sweetly. "Have you met Lily?"

Memphis' own smile faded slightly. "Not yet, but Owen told me a little bit about her."

Sordi came to her rescue.

"It's going to be a long drive out there," he informed them, producing a thermos and four glasses, "so I thought we'd have a little pre-party party, to make sure we're in the right spirit when we arrive."

"What a marvelous idea," Sybelle congratulated. "Now I know why I think you're the most elegant male in town. You do have such an appropriate touch."

He flashed her an engaging smile.

"Just a little iced champagne and orange juice. The color goes great with black sequins and diamonds." He handed a glass to Memphis. "And with purple silk and silver too."

"Heavenly of you to notice." She lifted her glass. "I second Sybelle's motion. To the most elegant and thoughtful man in town."

Sordi modestly bowed his head. "How can I possibly contradict two such inspiring ladies?"

Even in light traffic it took over two hours to reach Sag Harbor, and Orient was grateful that Sordi was able to keep the festive fires stoked. His own preoccupation kept him at a distant place, far from the laughter.

Memphis seemed to sense his growing tensions. She put her smooth white hand over his, and leaning closer, gently kissed his neck. The simple gesture seemed to draw him away from the anxieties.

"Hope I remembered to tell you how beautiful you look," he murmured.

"Only once." Her eyes were glowing like the amethysts around her neck. "I don't mind hearing it again."

"Now, now, you two," Sybelle admonished. "There's still some champagne left, and we're almost there."

The Orgaz estate was located on a remote point, past Sag Harbor, overlooking Gardiner's Bay. Guards with flashlights waved the Rolls through the gates after examining the invitations as if they were passports.

At the end of a long curving drive lined with pines, a glass-domed structure rose up from the black rock like a gleaming tortoise with ribs of chrome. Situated just below the main structure were two small egg-shaped satellites.

"Marvelous architecture," Sybelle exclaimed. "And look at the moonlight on the water. What a magnificent view. Whoever this baron is, he must have a bundle."

"The place is at least a million bananas' worth," Sordi said, his voice slightly hushed. "Must be a Frank Wright. Looks almost like a piece of sculpture."

When they reached the wide outdoor stairway leading to the entrance, a uniformed servant appeared, assisted the ladies from the car, then took the keys from Orient and parked the Rolls in an open area beneath a grove of willow trees.

As he slowly climbed the metal stairs, Orient's efforts to compose himself were undermined by the realization that there were only four other cars in the parking area. He'd committed social blunder one, and arrived on time.

"Are we early?" Sybelle asked. "I hope so. I'd like a long chat with our host."

The vast interior shell of the house was separated by areas that were raised to different levels and connected by curved ramps covered with thick black carpeting. Comfortable-looking knots of couches and chairs were located on some of the platforms, padded bars or lushly appointed kitchen areas on others. Still other platforms were grottoes, graceful bowers of green vegetation framing futuristic art objects that were lit by high overhead spots. A narrow waterfall cascaded from the uppermost level, spiraling down to a tiled pool in a valley at the far end of the huge space.

Hanging from the metal frames of the concave glass ceiling were massive speakers emitting the luxuriously sibilant rhythms of a Brazilian samba, while below, on every level, a scattered army of white-coated waiters silently prepared for the evening's onslaught.

Memphis took his arm. The lavender scent of her skin was reassuringly familiar in the immensely proportioned room.

"Looks like the pleasure dome decreed by old Kubla Khan himself," she whispered. "But perhaps we're too early to meet the emperor."

"He's in session, I think." Orient's narrowed eyes followed Sybelle's progress on the main ramp. With Sordi in tow, she was advancing up the winding, carpeted slope toward the summit of the waterfall. Lily was there, on the highest platform, standing with a slender figure in black.

He took a deep breath and slowly followed, leading Memphis by the hand. All the way up, he kept his eyes on Lily.

Lily disengaged herself from Sybelle's embrace and came to the head of the ramp to meet them. A black silk turban covered her hair, accentuating dangling crescent-. and-star earrings hammered from red gold almost the same shade as the golden flush of her skin. The dark circles of her nipples pushed against the black chiffon halter that tried vainly to conceal her softly thrusting breasts. The bottom of the halter was knotted over baggy Arabian trousers of white silk. The only pieces of jewelry she wore were the earrings, a gold bracelet, and a silver-and-emerald slave ring around her ankle. Her smile was vibrant, but Orient saw that her eyes were hard, like opaque disks of amber.

Her lips brushed his cheek.

"Prompt, as usual," she observed huskily.

"But you are looking well, Owen. Routine must agree with you" -- she turned and looked Memphis over -- "or home cooking."

Memphis let go of Orient's fingers and extended her hand.

"Memphis Pye," she said, leaning slightly on the last name. "It's very kind of you to have me, Lady Sativa."

"Please call me Lily, and I'm delighted to meet you. I've been so worried about Owen."

Memphis adjusted the intricate silver-and-turquoise belt highlighting the classic lines of her purple silk sheath.

"Oh, yes, Owen did mention you had very definite ideas about his welfare."

As they exchanged glances, Orient saw a flash of dislike snap between them like summer lightning, then disappear behind their smiles. Memphis' cool simplicity seemed to wither Lily's aggression. Though older, she seemed like an unspoiled schoolgirl beside Lily's gaudy petulance.

Lily took Orient's arm.

"Come meet Christian. He's so anxious to meet you."

It was a polite exaggeration.

Baron Orgaz was almost as tall as Orient, but that was their only point of similarity. While Orient's hair was shaggy black, broken only by the white streak that had been there since childhood, Orgaz' was pure white and cropped short, emphasizing his large, perfectly shaped head.

The baron's blue eyes blazed with a cold, almost transparent silver light, in direct contrast to the deep green glow of Orient's pupils. His features, too, seemed to be sculptured from cold white marble, making Orient's dark, high-boned face look like a primitive wood carving in comparison.

Orient's wide mouth relaxed into a hesitant grin of greeting, but as he neared, he saw that the baron's thin lips were pressed into the palest of smiles.

His handshake was also a minimal effort.

"Please call me Christian," he said, before Orient could speak. "I'm pleased you could come. Lily's told me of your interesting work in telepathy."

"Just experimentation, but we've had some good results. Your home is truly fantastic. Someone said that Wright may have designed the place, but though the dome has great affinity for the terrain, I see it's influenced by Fuller. Might have even been a personal project of your own."

Christian's bleached blue eyes appraised him with new interest.

"Quite right. I borrowed heavily from both while drawing up the designs. Indulging a little hobby of mine. I'm quite taken with mathematics and engineering. The arts of the builder."

"Are you an engineer, then?"

"Not by profession." As he spoke, Christian toyed with a gold diamond-shaped pendant hanging from a heavy link chain around his wrist.

Orient noticed that Orgaz ignored Memphis. Lily seemed intent on keeping her occupied with a muted but animated conversation.

"I understand you're from South America," Orient said. "But you have a slight German accent."

The expression on Christian's face was frozen, but his eyes burned with annoyance.

"I was born in Paraguay, but my mother was an Austrian Hapsburg. Her estates were seized first by the Nazis, and then by the Communists. Of course, I grew up speaking my family's tongue."

"That must have made your education difficult."

Again annoyance flickered across Christian's pale eyes like an electrical signal.

"I had a private tutor," he explained curtly.

Then his eyes went blank, and Orient felt an intense emanation of hostility.

"Lily's so charming," Christian purred. "Such a delightfully amusing guest. But, of course, you know that already."

Orient kept his emotions under tight control, refusing to be baited.

"She is full of surprises," he agreed.

"Are you two discussing me behind my back?" Lily demanded, joining them.

Orient glanced down at a serving area just below and saw Sordi and Memphis inspecting the food. Farther down, a swirl of glitteringly attired guests was arriving.

"Owen and I were having one of those who-are-you chats," Christian was saying. "He's got a wonderful ear for speech inflections."

"E's a bloomin' wunda, int'ee?" Lily teased, bringing an approving smile from Christian. She was holding a small silver bowl in one palm and a miniature spoon in her fingers.

"Anyone for some space snuff? It's very pure."

Christian took the bowl, holding it for her while she dipped the spoon, lifted a tiny heap of sparkling powder close to her nostril, and then, one finger holding the other nostril shut, inhaled sharply.

"You, Owen?" Orgaz offered when she was finished. He made it sound like a challenge.

He shrugged. "I'll pass."

"Well, I shan't," a familiarly hearty voice boomed. "Let me have a turn at that cocaine before it's all gone. Lily's become quite the little viper. Thank you, Christian, old dear."

Oliver Fish gave Lily a big kiss and took the bowl from Orgaz. After quickly sniffing the stimulant, he looked up and grinned, eyes bright blue and red against his pink face.

"Hello, Owen. Good to see you."

Orient's attempt to smile fell short of its intended mark. For a moment he stared dumbly at the wildly jeweled, white-maned Englishman.

"I thought you were in London, Oliver."

Fish beamed and clapped him cordially on the shoulder.

"Oh, I was. Went for a week, then came back. Staying here for the weekend. Then I'm off again."

"Come over here, Oliver," Lily called out, interrupting Orient's question. "Sybelle's waiting to meet you. You'll adore her."

As they moved away, Orient had the sensation of being watched. He looked up into Christian's eyes. He could feel raw hostility pulsing through the flat, metallic pupils, and could also sense something else. A powerful flux of energy that radiated about the large, smooth head, forming an almost visible aura.

"Not having any cocaine?" he asked calmly.

Christian's face remained impassive.

"I don't need artificial stimulants." He looked down at the guests filtering through the levels of the domed house like brightly colored ornaments.

"I find much more excitement in my everyday activities." He looked at Orient. "You're the same, I understand. A pragmatist. However, you'll find that anything that heightens pleasure is available in my little retreat. My bars serve hashish and cocaine as well as whiskey, champagne, and cognac. Only heroin isn't allowed here. Its function isn't pleasure, but oblivion."

He smiled, as if recalling some amusing incident. "Of course, one hundred thousand soldiers addicted to heroin would form the most loyal and truly dedicated army on earth."

Orient's wariness rapidly escalated to active dislike. "What's the point of such an army?"

Christian's expression was condescending. "To see how far one can go."

Orient's answer was lost in a cluster of unfamiliar faces and strident voices that suddenly crowded around Orgaz, and he slipped away unmissed.

He moved down the ramp looking for Memphis, unable to spot her in the increasing press of people around the bars and buffet tables. For a long time he wandered from level to level through the driving blare of music and high-pitched babble of people consuming pleasure. Despite the jostling pace and crushing noise, Orient noticed a few things through the confusion. At least two-thirds of Christian's guests were male, and judging from the experience he'd gleaned from investigating Arnold's death, many had the tribal speech patterns and mannered gestures of the gay subculture.

Exploring the spectacular dwelling further, he also discovered that there were doors leading to darkened cavelike rooms beneath some of the raised platform areas. When he opened one door he saw about fifteen men crouching on the floor, with wads of money in their fists, throwing dice. Behind another he found a private ballroom, lit with revolving colored lights, in which men were dancing, holding each other close and barely moving on the packed, smoke-clouded floor.

As he continued to check each area for Memphis, the immensity of the gathering, the swelling noise, and his inability to find a quiet corner where he could unravel his thoughts tripped the dull, pulsing signal of a coming headache. He pushed his way to another ramp and was just starting up when he noticed a door below. Both instinct and curiosity drew him down again.

He found a cozily padded cavern lined with low couches. Small groups of half-clothed men and women were sprawled in the dim blue light passing cigarettes and small containers of cocaine. He had the impression that an orgy had just spent itself or was about to begin. He was leaving when a familiar figure separated from the shadows at the rear of the room. It was Lily. She'd been lying next to a blond boy on one of the couches.

She approached Orient unsteadily, holding a goblet of champagne in front of her like a direction finder. Her halter strap had slipped off her shoulder, exposing one rounded, dark-nippled breast.

"Hello, Owen, love. Let's go out. I need some fresh air."

Walking slowly but erectly, she led the way up the ramp to the bar. She whispered something to a waiter, and Orient saw him nod and pick up the phone.

"Watch," said Lily proudly, coming back to him.

In a few seconds Orient saw the top frames joining the domed ceiling separate slowly and felt a rush of cool sea air. At the same time, some of the slatted windows around the base of the house swiveled open like fins, creating cross-drafts that instantly cleared the smoke-polluted air from the large space.

"Better than air-conditioning, isn't it?" Lily commented, leaning against him.

A herd of conflicting desires thundered through his thoughts. He pulled away and looked at her. Her half-lidded eyes were very bright, her mouth was parched, and there was a smudge of crystal powder at the edge of one nostril. Her chiseled features seemed blurred somehow. She gulped down the remains of her glass.

"Quite a party." She smiled. "And all for me. Want some champagne?"

He shook his head and held out a hand. When their fingers touched, her indistinct expression came into focus, revealing the reckless defiance of a frightened child. Realizing she was close to hysteria, Orient suppressed his own emotions.

"How long have you been partying?" he asked gently.

"Since I left you. All kinds of parties. Very social." She came closer.

"What about you? Your new girlfriend seems like the homebody type." She smirked. "You move rather quickly for a quiet man, my love. Perhaps I misjudged you."

As she reached up to wipe her nose with a napkin, he noticed a gold bracelet with a diamond-shaped pendant, like the one worn by Orgaz. For some reason the fact that they shared the same jewelry depressed him.

"Have you been sniffing coke all this time?" he asked sharply.

Her hand came away from her face, revealing a half-mocking grin. "I suppose you disapprove?"

He forced a smile. "Too much coffee, too much milk, or too many drugs, all come down to the same thing."

The impersonal attitude seemed to relax her. She put a hand on his arm and nodded.

"I'll slow down when the season slacks off." Then her face brightened. All trace of fatigue and tension suddenly evaporated, leaving her skin fresh and radiant.

He knew the change was an upswing in her artificially stimulated mood.

"But don't worry, Owen," she was saying. "I'll be just fine. Never felt better, actually."

"As long as you enjoy what you're doing."

Her brow furrowed in concentration, and she stood for a few moments, swaying slightly.

"I miss you sometimes," she said finally. "At least once a day."

Her husky voice devoured all his defenses. He clung grimly to his will to maintain the distance between them.

"Perhaps someday we can talk it over."

His coolness seemed to draw her warmth.

"When?" she asked quickly. "This week? It would be nice to talk."

"Anytime."

She paused, trying to think.

"Wednesday afternoon, then, at your place." Her eyes darkened. "Unless you're involved with Memphis that day."

"I'll be waiting," he told her softly.

Her mood swung higher.

"I need some champagne," she announced, taking his hand. "Let's go find Christian."

Orient pulled away gently. "You go ahead. I'm going to stay around here for a while longer."

She hesitated, for one frozen second looking like a little girl in her mother's clothing.

"I'll be there Wednesday," she reminded.

"So will I." Even before he'd finished reassuring her, the childlike expression dissolved to the weary determination of a restless woman in search of satisfaction, and she drifted away into the dense flow of people sharing the same goal.

Intensifying his efforts, Orient found Memphis on the upper platform, sandwiched between a youth with a broken nose dressed in a denim tuxedo and a plump, disapproving older man in black leather overalls.

As he approached, Memphis disengaged herself and hurried to meet him.

"What a merry-go-round." She sighed, taking his arm. "I thought I'd never find you again."

He discovered that he shared her relief. "Sordi or Sybelle about?"

"Haven't seen them. Those two gentlemen have been helping me find you." She smiled at him. "The one with the broken nose decided he had a crush on me and wouldn't leave me alone until you came. He's famous, too. His name is Bobby Joe Leroy, and he won some football award."

"That's top-flight protection. Who was the knight in overalls?"

"Oh, some society type. He has a crush on the football player. It was all very decadent."

"Sounds like a big-time triangle."

"Tiring, really. I'm afraid I can't cope with so many people and so much noise."

"We can leave if you like."

One corner of her mouth turned up in a hesitant smile. "Are you sure?"

"It's your party." He smiled. "Or would you rather have something to eat?"

Her purple eyes were gleaming as she kissed him.

"Let's get a hamburger on the way home," she whispered. "I can't stand this showplace another minute."

Orient asked one of the barmen to call a taxi, and was told the baron had provided transportation. A limousine left for the city every half-hour. After locating Sordi and giving him the keys to the Ghost, Orient headed toward the door where Memphis was waiting.

On the way he saw Oliver Fish, dressed in an elaborately embroidered cossack shirt and his usual regalia of rings, chains, and bracelets, having an intense conversation with a blond boy in blue satin trousers. Orient recognized the boy as the youth who'd been lying next to Lily in the darkened room, and decided to barge in on the conference.

"How about dinner tomorrow, Oliver?" he asked directly. "There are a few things I'd like to talk over with you."

The tall Englishman frowned. "Don't know, old dear, frightfully busy these days. Let me ring you up in the middle of the week."

As he moved toward the door, Orient decided that he'd have to make it a special point to corner Fish for an interview very soon.

Memphis was standing in front of the mirror when he joined her. Glancing up, he saw their reflection -- she in her simple purple sheath and silver belt and he in gray trousers, a white silk shirt, and Sordi's studded snakeskin vest. He realized that they both looked slightly out of place in the extravagantly attired crowd. But he was more pleased with their own similarity than chagrined by the fact that they were under-dressed.

She seemed to pick up his reaction.

"We do look like chaperons at the PTA Halloween dance." She smiled. "But at least it's really us you see there."

Memphis fell asleep after the first hour, leaving Orient to his thoughts. He stared out at the highway through half-closed eyes, lulled by the monotonously regular landscape and dark silence in the spacious rear of the limousine.

Lily's condition at the party worried him. She seemed driven by compulsions he'd never seen her exhibit before. She'd always been adventurous, but her explorations were always in search of further truth. Now all she seemed to be looking for was self-gratification. He wondered to what extent Orgaz had influenced her change of direction.

The image of the baron's coldly handsome face was clear, as if burned into his memory by those pale, silvery eyes, and a warning pulse began to drum at the base of his brain. All of his senses seemed to freeze, like deer scenting a predator, at the thought of Lily's new friend. Orient had been prepared to deal with a certain amount of jealousy on his part, but was surprised by his deeply personal dislike of Christian.

He was certain the reaction was caused by something more than emotional paranoia. He hoped that Lily would keep the appointment Wednesday.

Memphis was still curled against his shoulder when the limousine arrived at her apartment.

"You're home," he whispered, kissing her warm, soft neck.

She opened one eye.

"What a waste of time parties are." She yawned. "In eight hours we've had only sixty conscious minutes to enjoy each other. And now I'm so exhausted I just want to crawl into my bed alone and sleep. Such a pity, isn't it?"

Orient agreed, also numbed from the effects of the party and too much car travel.

On the way across town the driver stopped for the late papers. He came back to the car reading the back-page sports results. As he neared, Orient caught a glimpse of a familiar face on the front page.

A faint breeze of apprehension stirred somewhere inside his brain. He rolled down the window.

"Mind if I take a quick look?"

The driver thrust the paper through the window. "Go ahead. The Jets lost. I had fifty-on the bastards."

The photograph on the front page struck Orient's comprehension like a quick blow to the solar plexus. His heartbeat staggered as he stared at the bearded face beneath the headline: sadistic sex orgy; victim found dead.

The face belonged to Jojo.

Chapter 14

Orient started calling the newspapers in the morning.

He posed as a television producer putting together a documentary on sex crimes in the city, and by evening, after picking up several inflated bar bills, he'd managed to piece together some salient facts.

Walter Alfred Kramer, which was Jojo's real name, was thirty-four, with a record of three arrests, one for theft and two for pandering. He was known as a male prostitute, procurer, and sometime police informer. His body had been found in a midtown loft near the docks by police acting on a phone tip. A man who'd been working late in the building saw a group of three motorcyclists enter, heard wild screaming noises, then shortly after saw only two of the motorcyclists leave.

When the police broke into the loft, they found Jojo's body chained to a marble table. He'd been whipped and branded with an L.

The medical examiner had ruled it death by misadventure, caused by the shock of the severe beating and being branded. The body had been claimed by a cousin of Jojo's and taken to a funeral home near Delancey Street. Orient looked up the address and went directly to the funeral home.

The mortician had trimmed Jojo's hair and dressed him in a tuxedo and yarmulke, giving his corpse the look of a peacefully contemplative rabbi.

Orient questioned both the mortician and Jojo's cousin, but they were unable to add to the information he'd already collected, beyond the fact that Jojo would be buried the next morning. He lingered in the shabby funeral parlor until closing time, checking out the handful of mourners, all male, who came to pay their last respects.

The only one he recognized was Big Sal, the paunchy male prostitute, who greeted him furtively, then pulled him aside.

"I heard on the vine that Jojo got it with an L brand, just like Arnold," he whispered hoarsely, his flabby, freckled features wrinkled with fear.

"That's right. Hear anything else?"

Sal hunched his shoulders. "Jojo told me something about a big score he had lined up for the weekend."

"What kind of score?"

"He didn't say."

"When did he tell you this?" Orient pressed.

Sal examined his tattooed knuckles. "Maybe Saturday night at the Panther."

"Can you remember anything else he said?"

"No. That's it. But what about this L-brand bit comin' down? What's it mean?"

"That's what I've been trying to find out. Give me a call if you hear anything."

Sal shook his head. "I won't be around. Trade's too dangerous right now. I'm going out West until things cool off. Maybe Omaha. I don't want to end up like Jojo, God rest him."

Orient thought about Sal's last three words all the way home.

He hadn't any doubt that the power that killed Arnold and attacked his home during the seance had consumed another sacrifice. He didn't even have to bother checking Jojo's apartment for broken glass.

But the latest attempt on his own life had been physical. Perhaps because he'd been able to defend against occult attack. Or perhaps because the adept wasn't yet strong enough.

The most powerful blood rituals involved sacrifice at each seasonal phase, and took a full year to complete. If he could somehow neutralize Jojo's sacrifice, he could weaken, or possibly destroy, the effectiveness of the unknown rite.

By the time he arrived at the house, he'd decided to try it.

He found Sordi just beginning work on the film, even though it was almost midnight. "That was some party," he explained happily. "Didn't get in until almost eleven this morning. Want some breakfast?"

Orient accepted with gratitude. He'd eaten nothing except cocktail snacks in the past thirty hours.

While they ate, Sordi continued to appraise the highlights of Orgaz' reception.

"The food was remarkable," he confided. "With a few exceptions, everything was right. Everything was cooked and baked right in those kitchen areas. What a place."

"Palatial," Orient agreed.

Sordi poured himself another coffee.

"I saw Bobby Joe Leroy there, and Clyde Howard, the TV sports-caster. He looks different in person, more like a guy who gives advice to housewives. But there were lots of other celebrities there too. There was even a room underneath one of the levels where guys were dancing together. Lily and the baron have wild friends." He paused for Orient's opinion.

"Very Dionysian," was his only comment. He waited to hear more, but Sordi seemed to have finished his report.

"Did you talk to Lily?" he asked finally.

"Just a few words. She was kind of looped. After a while she went up to that top floor with the baron and Oliver. They stayed up there most of the time, with a few others."

"How about Oliver?"

Sordi's craggy features took on an expression of pained reserve.

"He gave me the cold shoulder. I don't know, but I'd say his manners are as phony as his clothes."

Orient's eyes narrowed slightly at the memory of the skull-headed stick.

"Could be, you know," he said. Then he looked up. "I need your help on a project."

"Sure. Shooting or editing?"

"Digging. We're going to steal a body."

Sordi's reserve dissolved, unhinging his jaw, as Orient told him about the investigation, the attempt on his life, and the second L-brand killing.

"You're getting close to somebody," he said, voice hushed. His blue eyes searched Orient's face. "What are you going to do with it? The body, I mean."

"I'm going to exorcise Jojo's corpse, then rebury it in the country somewhere. We can cremate later."

"You think that'll stop whoever it is?"

"No, it won't." Orient sighed. "But it will free Jojo's spirit and invalidate whatever power his killer gained from the sacrifice. After that, we can try to contact Jojo by seance."

"Won't there be guards?" Sordi asked, still watching him closely.

"If we get caught, it won't be possible to explain," he admitted. "If we don't go to jail, I'll at least lose my license to practice medicine."

Sordi leaned back in his chair, staring at his interlocked fingers. After a few moments he looked up. "You think it's the only way?"

"The only way," Orient repeated softly.

Orient was at the funeral home early the next morning. He watched the casket being closed, then followed the lone two-tone sedan making up the procession to the cemetery.

He lingered after the burial and walked through the tree-shaded grounds, checking out as many details as possible. He noted the guard posts at each entrance, the distance from Jojo's grave to the fence, and the distance from the fence to the street. He was relieved that both the gravesite and the street offered tree cover. After adding the height of the fence to his calculations, he went to his car and drove through the cemetery once more before leaving.

Driving back from the Bronx, Orient tried to concentrate on the job that night, but his thoughts kept straying to Jojo. The bearded hustler hadn't been especially honest, or even pleasant, but at times displayed a sly wit that almost made up for his surly personality. It was ironic that the best thing he could do for Jojo now was steal his body.

Sordi was ready with the equipment when he arrived home.

"I taped the shovels and flashlights, and found a heavy industrial sack with handles in a surplus store." The lines on his lean face deepened with regret. "But for the first time since coming to America, I was forced to buy a pair of sneakers."

They rehearsed each stage of the plan carefully, going over the details until ten that night. Then, dressed in dark work clothes, they put their tools in the car and drove out to the cemetery.

The area looked completely different at night, but Orient had allowed for the change, having made a crude map of outstanding landmarks. He parked the Ghost on a dark street running perpendicular to the cemetery, which gave them a good view of the fence section closest to Jojo's grave.

Sordi left the car and strolled slowly across the street. He walked around the corner, out of sight, then reappeared ten minutes later, stood near the fence, and lit a cigarette, the signal that everything was clear.

Taking the heavy sack filled with equipment with him, Orient got out of the car. He kept his eyes on Sordi, who stood scanning the streets while he approached, and as soon as he reached the fence, tossed the bag over the high iron bars. Then he walked quickly to Sordi, who was waiting with cupped hands, stepped up into his palms, and was boosted to the top rung.

He dropped down lightly, then turned, leaned against the fence, put his arms through the bars, and assisted Sordi over in the same manner. The entire procedure took forty-five seconds.

Following the plan, they crouched beneath a group of trees and waited for five minutes, listening for patrolling guards and letting their eyes become accustomed to the darkness around them.

They retrieved the sack and quickly moved through the shadows until they reached the edge of the tree line, the most hazardous part of their route.

The cemetery was circled with a natural fence of vegetation, but the interior was a flat plain of grass and bone-white tombstones, occasionally relieved by clumps of tall pines. Fortunately Jojo was buried next to one of the groves, but they had to cross two roads and a hundred yards of open, treacherous ground to reach the site.

Without using flashlights, they stepped out into the open area, crossed the first road, and moved in a crouch between rows of marked graves toward a looming black shape in the distance, which Orient calculated to be the grove they wanted.

The compulsively rigid layout of the cemetery made their passage through the gloom much easier than anticipated, and in a few minutes they were across the second road and could distinguish the dark contours of the trees ahead.

Orient was almost at the grove when a sharp, shuffling sound froze his muscles in mid-step. He half-turned and saw that Sordi was crouched low. He did the same and waited.

Sordi crept a few steps closer.

"They're working over there," he said under his breath.

Orient shook his head.

"There're no lights and no talk." He moved forward and stopped, senses straining, but all he could hear was the booming of his own heart.

Suddenly two bright shafts of light stabbed through the murkiness behind them. A car was coming around the curving road. Waving Sordi on, he hurried to the embracing darkness of the huddled trees.

They lay flat, faces pressed against the damp grass, as the car's lights swept across the rows of headstones.

A few moments after the bobbing red taillights disappeared, the sharp, shuffling noise resumed, and Orient recognized it as the sound of earth being shoveled. He also realized it was coming from the vicinity of Jojo's grave. Crawling on knees and elbows, he made his way to the edge of the grove.

Following the direction of the muffled sound, he made out a single blurred figure, who kept appearing and disappearing into the deep shadows. Moving closer, he saw that it was someone dressed in black, bending and raising his body rapidly as he dug, back turned away from Orient as he worked.

Acting instinctively, Orient dropped the sack and slowly crawled closer. When he was about four feet from the figure, he slipped the flashlight from his pocket, raised his body off the ground, and stood poised on knuckles and toes. For long moments he waited, and then, just as the figure bent toward the ground, he sprang.

Orient shoved hard with both hands, sending the man sprawling face-down on the ground. He came down heavily on the man's back with both knees and dug the end of the flashlight into his neck.

"Don't move a muscle," Orient grunted through clenched teeth. He picked up the fallen shovel and threw it into the shadows.

"Now, tell me what you're doing here," he ordered softly.

"Really, old dear," the figure beneath him wheezed with great difficulty, "this strong-arm business isn't at all necessary."

Orient's grip on the flashlight went slack as he recognized the muffled voice of Oliver Fish.

Chapter 15

"Are you okay?" Sordi whispered.

"I'm awful," Fish groaned.

Sordi came closer.

"What happened?"

"I think our friend came here to steal Jojo's body," Orient said. "Isn't that true?"

"Yes." Fish squirmed helplessly. "Now, will you please let me up? You're not a small man, y'know."

Orient remained where he was. "What do you want with the body?"

"I want to exorcise it, old dear. Or try to, anyway."

"Why?"

"Why do you want the body, Orient?" The question snapped through the darkness like a lash.

He dug the end of the flashlight into Fish's neck.

"I'm warning you," he hissed, trying to contain a hot surge of anger. "This revolver is loaded."

"Makes plenty of noise, I expect."

"There's always the shovel."

"All right, all right. Look, just let me up, like a good fellow, and I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Tell me why you want to exorcise the body."

"Because the poor boy was sacrificed to the bloody skull of Schamballah I told you about. Now, will you please get off me? Remember, I'm old enough to be your grandfather."

"Keep your voice down," Sordi warned. "The guards."

"I bribed the flaming guards," Oliver insisted. "Let me up."

"I'll get off your back, but don't try to move. Just stay where you are, face-down and arms out." Orient got to his feet and crouched over him. "Now, tell me how Jojo was killed."

Oliver heaved a long sigh of relief.

"He was... willed... to death," he explained between breaths. "And his... spiritual energy absorbed by the skull."

"Who willed him to death. And who branded him?"

"I... don't know."

"You must, or you wouldn't be here."

"I came here trying to wrest this wretched Jojo creature's soul from the skull. If I knew who killed him, I would have gone there."

"What made you come here, then?" Orient pressed.

"I heard that Jojo had been branded. You've been asking so many questions about that Arnold Weber boy that the rumors spread like a flash fire through the gay community when Jojo was found."

"What does the L mean?"

"I don't know. I only know that during certain times of the year, and certain moon phases, people are branded and killed."

"Others besides Arnold Weber and Jojo?"

"Fifteen, to be exact, old dear. Four in London one year. Four in Hamburg the next. Four last year in Amsterdam, and three here in New York so far. All Jewish, all homosexual males, and all branded with that mark. I became aware of the murders during my search for the crystal skull of Schamballah."

Orient glanced up and saw Sordi hunched over Fish's prostrate body, a shovel clutched in both hands and his mouth gaping.

He, too, was torn between confusion and doubt. The only thing he could do was continue bluffing until he heard everything Lily's friend had to say.

"I'm not convinced," he told Oliver. "Tell me again how Jojo died."

"Look here. This turf's a bit damp for these games. I'll tell you the whole story from the beginning. After that, you decide what you want to do about it, but I'm getting up."

"Easy," Sordi warned, shooting Orient a questioning glance, as he lifted the shovel.

He shook his head. "Tell us what you have to say, but stay right there."

"I'll try to be brief but comprehensive," Fish grunted, twisting to loosen stiffened back muscles. "During the war, the Second World War that is, I was with the British OSS, intelligence, y'know. A bit of bravo from time to time, but mainly data gathering and propaganda. It was just after the war, when we were sifting through some captured Nazi records, that I learned about the party's experiments with psychic and occult power. Everyone told me I was mad, of course, but I pursued it for... personal reasons."

"What personal reasons?"

"Don't sidetrack me. I found out that the real reason for the mass killings of the Jews, gypsies, and everyone else wasn't racial genocide at all, but attempts to generate occult power through human sacrifice on a gigantic scale. In case you don't know, the origins of the Nazi party go back to the Thule group. Like Atlantis, Thule was thought to have been a center of advanced magical sciences, as practiced by an ultracivilized race of giants. These were the original Aryans.

"Thule was composed of two powerful cities: Schamballah, the center of violence and power; and Agarthi, the hidden temple of meditation." Fish turned and looked up at Orient.

His long white hair was hidden under a black wool cap, but the superior expression and waxed moustache were familiar.

"Do you mind awfully if I get up, old dear?"

"Yes, I do. You haven't told us anything except ancient history."

Fish sighed loudly. "Anyway, Hitler was the central figure in this latter-day Thule group of seven, which seeded the rise of the Nazi party. But all this time, he was highly influenced by a man called Von Hausoff. I knew the name, you see, recognized it from the time I visited Tibet. Von Hausoff was a high adept of the tantric rite and belonged to the powerful lodge of Yama, the lord of death.

"I deduced from my studies that this Von Hausoff was actually the magician, and Hitler a mere medium, a resonator. It was Von Hausoff who actually chose the swastika as the Nazi emblem. A magical symbol, incidentally. Von Hausoff was also the man responsible for the death's-head SS. And the trinity of the Broken Cross."

"The trinity..." Sordi blurted.

"I see you've heard of it," Fish congratulated.

Orient gave Sordi a warning glance. "During the seance. In connection with the skull. But we still don't know what it means. Fill us in."

"The trinity was, and still is, the mystical core of the death's-head SS, which, as you may recall, was declared to be above even Nazi-party law. The trinity itself was composed of Hitler, Von Hausoff, and Colonel Wolfram Sievers during the war. In reality, you see, Sievers commanded more internal power than the great Himmler.

"Beneath this triumvirate was the so-called Black Order of the SS, including Himmler, who was father superior of this semireligious order, the infamous Dr. Hirt, Julius Streicher, and some others."

"Is the skull of Schamballah connected to the SS skull insignia?" Sordi asked.

"Exactly."

"But the Nazi party lost," Orient reminded. "They weren't very adept sorcerers."

"Ah, but that's the interesting part," Fish said. "But I won't say another word until you at least let me sit up."

"Go ahead."

"Well, finally. I do think you're a bit thick with this business," Oliver chided indignantly, sitting up and hugging his knees. From the expression on his face, however, it seemed he was enjoying himself.

"All through the war," he went on, "Hitler seemed destined to succeed. The sacrifices went on daily in the name of the skull. But then everything started breaking down horrendously. Trouble was, the actual skull of Schamballah wasn't found until the Reich had almost completely collapsed, in forty-four. You see, Von Hausoff had found and translated some of the ancient manuscripts earlier in Tibet, along with some maps. Hitler and the Thule group began using the rituals as soon as they could master them. But their explorers weren't able to locate the skull's actual hiding place until many years later."

"They were conducting rites without having the proper channel for their energy," Orient mused. "They hadn't a strong enough resonator."

"So the energy generated by the sacrifices began lashing back at them," Fish completed. "Quite right. Well, to go on, when Kidd found the skull at Tiahuanaco, which is actually the ruins of Schamballah, it was too late. Hitler ordered Kidd to stay in South America, and Von Hausoff flew to Peru to join them. Members of the Black Order were already arranging their postwar underground network. Money, jewels, art -- all the spoils began filtering out of Germany. Finally the Reich was finished. Hitler was dead, Sievers executed, but Von Hausoff -- and the skull -- are still unaccounted for."

Fish stretched out his arms.

"Well, that's it, my friends. Since the war I've been tracking the crafty bastard, but he's too smart. I have found out that the SS is far from disbanded, and Von Hausoff is their invisible guiding light. I've been trying to trace his movements around the world. Then the murders started. That was four years ago. Frankly, they've got me worried. It means a new trinity has been formed. And with the skull in their possession, they won't fail a second time."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Orient inquired.

"It's really not something one discusses, old dear. And when you flashed me that image of the skull, I thought you might be involved with the damned trinity. Now I see we share common interests."

"Perhaps. You say you've checked these murders against the phases of the moon?"

"Oh, I've tried, all right, but they don't follow any strict pattern. Most are on the full moon, but some have occurred on the new moon as well."

"It's logical to assume that this is the last year of a four-year rite," Orient calculated. "Otherwise, it would be three sacrifices for three years, or five for five...."

"Just my deduction." Fish beamed, white teeth glistening in the shadows. "That's why I felt I should take direct action and exorcise this poor boy's body. Losing this sacrifice could destroy the balance of the trinity's ritual."

"What do you know about the ritual itself?"

"Not a thing. It's not connected to any forms of power I'm familiar with. But I have pieced together parts of the famous blood oath of the SS Black Order, which definitely mentions Thule, Schamballah, and Agarthi and contains certain key words. Well" -- he looked around at his captors -- "what do you say? You've heard it all now."

"There's no way of checking your story," Orient said to him. "But you'll have your chance to prove it. Start digging. You can help us exorcise Jojo's body."

Fish rose slowly, walked about stiffly for a few seconds, then retrieved his shovel.

"You know, Orient," he drawled, "you can turn on that flashlight you're pretending is a revolver. As I told you, the guard won't be around."

He turned over a spadeful of earth. "And since you don't have to man your weapon, perhaps you and your friend will condescend to assist me."

Orient declined to turn on the light, but he and Sordi joined Fish in the digging. Silently the three men worked side by side in the darkness, their descent into the grave facilitated by the softness of the newly turned earth. In less than twenty minutes Fish's spade made a dull, thumping sound when it pierced the dirt.

"That's it," he announced. "Now the hard work begins."

"You sound like you've done this before," Sordi observed.

"Archaeology is another of my passions. I've opened some tombs in my day."

"Well, let's go ahead slowly," Orient said. "You show us how. I want Jojo removed with the least possible disturbance."

"Removed? But we can exorcise him right here," Oliver protested. "I've got everything in a bag up there."

Orient shook his head. "You may know how to open graves, but it's important that the exorcism is carried out properly. We'll remove him."

The tall Englishman peered into his face. "You talk like a practicing adept, Orient."

"You'll have your chance to find out. Let's go."

Working carefully, it took another ten difficult minutes to clear the dirt from the top of the casket. Fish took a tool from his pocket, unscrewed the corners of the lid, then lifted it open.

Orient switched on his flashlight.

The narrow beam showed nothing but glazed white satin. Jojo's coffin was empty.

Fish whistled softly. "We've been anticipated, old dear."

Sordi stared at him in disbelief. "The trinity...?"

"Of course. They're not taking any chances these days."

As Orient slowly guided the light around the coffin, something metallic glittered in a fold of the shiny fabric lining the interior. He leaned down and picked it up.

"Find something interesting?" Fish inquired, bending closer.

Orient couldn't answer. His awareness was a blaring orchestra of dissonant emotions that drowned out all response.

"Are you all right?" Sordi whispered.

Orient switched off the light.

"I'm fine. Let's get out of here." But even as he spoke, his memory was whirling around the gold chain and diamond-shaped pendant in his hand. He'd seen a similar bracelet only two nights before, being worn by both Orgaz and Lily.

His heartbeat and breathing were still rapid when he climbed out of the open grave.

"How about a look at that thing you found, Orient," Fish drawled genially. "I may be able to help you in this affair. It must be obvious to you now that I didn't come for the body."

He took a few steps into the shadows at the base of the trees and returned with a heavy cloth sack.

"Here's the material I brought along for the exorcism."

Still uncertain, Orient handed him the bracelet. "Have you ever seen one like it before?"

"It is rather familiar," Oliver admitted. "Lend me your light for a moment, old dear."

Orient passed him the flashlight. A moment later the stillness was shattered by simultaneous flashes of sound, light, and pain.

Something heavy slammed into his abdomen, taking his wind and sending a bitter jet of bile into his throat. Then another crashing weight toppled him backward.

For what seemed hours he silently struggled against the pressure crushing his chest. Finally it shifted slightly.

"Is that you?" Sordi tried to turn, increasing the pressure.

"Move your leg," Orient rasped.

Suddenly the pressure broke. Sordi rolled off, struggled to his feet, and helped him up.

They were at the bottom of the open grave. Orient had fallen into the open coffin with Sordi on top of him. Painfully, they crawled out of the pit. Oliver was gone.

"He pushed the light in my face and grabbed my neck. What kind of stupid thing is that to do?" Sordi demanded, brushing off his clothes. "I can't figure it. He must have been telling us the truth about coming to exorcise the body. Why bother digging up an empty coffin?"

An unfamiliar tremor in Orient's voice betrayed his frustration and rage.

"Maybe he didn't come to do anything to the body," he muttered, grinding a fist into his empty palm. "Maybe he came for some evidence that was left behind. Like the bracelet he took with him."

Chapter 16

Orient was alone on a vast desert.

He could see clearly, despite the darkened sky, but there was nothing around him except the silent, trackless dunes.

A sudden sense of urgency prodded him, and he began moving toward the horizon. He continued for hours without seeing any variation in the mute landscape. He was just about to stop and rest when he sighted two dark dots breaking the bleak expanse of sand. Relief washed over his weariness like a soothing balm, and he hurried toward the black spots in the distance.

It took him a short time to cross the barren terrain, and he found his strength returning as he neared the dark shapes.

For a moment he thought that what seemed like landmarks were merely a pair of high dunes, and exhaustion sucked away his renewed desire to continue. Then he made out the hard, regular edges of their shape and realized he was approaching some sort of pyramid constructions.

Coming closer, he saw that the twin pyramids were very large. Their massive regularity loomed above him, almost blotting out the sky.

They were constructed of huge blocks of black stone that had been so precisely cut that the places where they joined were hardly visible. Before he could explore his surroundings further, however, he heard the measured tread of approaching footsteps. Instinctively he ducked behind a cornerstone and crouched down.

A second later he saw a small procession round the corner of the other pyramid and come slowly toward him. Panic seized his reflexes as he realized he'd gone in the wrong direction and was directly in their line of march. Then he saw their faces.

Baron Orgaz led the procession, followed by Lily.

Both were dressed in black robes and had their arms crossed over their breasts, palms touching shoulders. Behind were two figures, also in black, who were carrying a litter.

None of the four seemed to notice his presence, even though he was only a few feet away. As they passed, he looked down at the litter and saw Jojo's bearded face staring up at the sunless sky. The recognition shattered Orient's paralysis, and he reached out to stop the youth bringing up the rear of the cortege. When he touched the boy's shoulder, a shock of cold jolted through his arm like electrified ice, freezing his breath. The boy turned, and Orient saw the murky film of death covering his sightless eyes.

Just then, the procession stopped.

Seized by a violent fear, Orient tried to run back to the protection of the silent desert, but found himself unable to move his limbs. At the same time, a luxurious blanket of energy settled over his consciousness, numbing his will.

He looked up and saw that Orgaz was standing at the center of the pyramid. The white-skinned figure fixed his blank, metallic gaze on Orient and lifted his arm.

Immediately, the two youths came forward and deposited the litter bearing Jojo's body at his feet.

A smile compressed Christian's lips, and he extended his hand to Lily, who stood a few feet away, arms still crossed, lovely features ravaged by conflicting expressions of terror and lust.

Orient was dimly aware that he had to tear away the fleecy cloak smothering his will, but was unable to force his mind to respond. He could only stand helpless as Lily took a hesitant step toward Orgaz.

He desperately pillaged his resources, trying to find some way of breaking the velvet bonds dominating his awareness, until he saw Lily hurry to Christian's side and kneel beside the litter.

Despair erupted like a boil inside the prison of his consciousness, then burst, oozing its poison over his senses, as Lily bent to kiss Jojo's blue, lifeless lips.

The acid seared through every thought and emotion as the mocking echoes of Christian's laughter swallowed his desperate screams....

Orient woke up yelling.

He lay in the darkness for a long time, breathing deeply until the pounding in his trembling chest subsided and the chill, bitter nausea receded from his throat.

Still shaken by the intensity of the nightmare, he switched on the light and took his dream diary from the night-table drawer.

Writing the details seemed to reopen the profound void of fear in his heaving emotions, but he forced himself to record even the most insignificant recollections. When it was finished, he had to repeat the deep breathing to quell his swarming anxieties.

It was only six-thirty, but he didn't consider trying to go back to sleep. He replaced the diary in the drawer, rolled out of bed, staggered to the meditation room, and spent the rest of the morning preparing for Lily's visit.

Instead of attempting to obliterate his confused thoughts, he began by letting them regularity loomed above him, almost blotting out the sky.

They were constructed of huge blocks of black stone that had been so precisely cut that the places where they joined were hardly visible. Before he could explore his surroundings further, however, he heard the measured tread of approaching footsteps. Instinctively he ducked behind a cornerstone and crouched down.

A second later he saw a small procession round the corner of the other pyramid and come slowly toward him. Panic seized his reflexes as he realized he'd gone in the wrong direction and was directly in their line of march. Then he saw their faces.

Baron Orgaz led the procession, followed by Lily.

Both were dressed in black robes and had their arms crossed over their breasts, palms touching shoulders. Behind were two figures, also in black, who were carrying a litter.

None of the four seemed to notice his presence, even though he was only a few feet away. As they passed, he looked down at the litter and saw Jojo's bearded face staring up at the sunless sky. The recognition shattered Orient's paralysis, and he reached out to stop the youth bringing up the rear of the cortege. When he touched the boy's shoulder, a shock of cold jolted through his arm like electrified ice, freezing his breath. The boy turned, and Orient saw the murky film of death covering his sightless eyes.

Just then, the procession stopped.

Seized by a violent fear, Orient tried to run back to the protection of the silent desert, but found himself unable to move his limbs. At the same time, a luxurious blanket of energy settled over his consciousness, numbing his will.

He looked up and saw that Orgaz was standing at the center of the pyramid. The white-skinned figure fixed his blank, metallic gaze on Orient and lifted his arm.

Immediately, the two youths came forward and deposited the litter bearing Jojo's body at his feet.

A smile compressed Christian's lips, and he extended his hand to Lily, who stood a few feet away, arms still crossed, lovely features ravaged by conflicting expressions of terror and lust.

Orient was dimly aware that he had to tear away the fleecy cloak smothering his will, but was unable to force his mind to respond. He could only stand helpless as Lily took a hesitant step toward Orgaz.

He desperately pillaged his resources, trying to find some way of breaking the velvet bonds dominating his awareness, until he saw Lily hurry to Christian's side and kneel beside the litter.

Despair erupted like a boil inside the prison of his consciousness, then burst, oozing its poison over his senses, as Lily bent to kiss Jojo's blue, lifeless lips.

The acid seared through every thought and emotion as the mocking echoes of Christian's laughter swallowed his desperate screams....

Orient woke up yelling.

He lay in the darkness for a long time, breathing deeply until the pounding in his trembling chest subsided and the chill, bitter nausea receded from his throat.

Still shaken by the intensity of the nightmare, he switched on the light and took his dream diary from the night-table drawer.

Writing the details seemed to reopen the profound void of fear in his heaving emotions, but he forced himself to record even the most insignificant recollections. When it was finished, he had to repeat the deep breathing to quell his swarming anxieties.

It was only six-thirty, but he didn't consider trying to go back to sleep. He replaced the diary in the drawer, rolled out of bed, staggered to the meditation room, and spent the rest of the morning preparing for Lily's visit.

Instead of attempting to obliterate his confused thoughts, he began by letting them all parade before his mind's scrupulous review.

He didn't know how much he could believe of Oliver's story, but was certain that Arnold and Jojo had been sacrificed in a powerful blood rite. He tended to believe that others had been killed the same way, and was almost sure that Orgaz, Fish, and Lily were involved.

He also realized that the angry panic he felt could be dangerous to him. He was like a man walking through darkness on eggshells, making his way by the feel of his toes.

Every instinct warned that Christian Orgaz was a powerful adept of evil. He knew such beliefs rode the edge of jealous paranoia, but his vivid first impression of the man, coupled with the discovery of the bracelet in Jojo's coffin, gave them balance.

The possibility that the diamond-pendant bracelet belonged to Lily was hard to accept, but so was her present association with Orgaz. The fact that she was involved with, and perhaps guided by, the arrogant young man gnawed at his emotions, but he understood he had to learn to accept its reality. There was only what existed. His discomfort was caused by an illusion created by desire.

The tantric ecstasies, drugs, domination by Orgaz, or all three, had driven her away from him, but the direction was her own affair. The only significant question was whether she'd arrived at blood sacrifice in her travels.

He wondered if the mysterious Von Hausoff Fish claimed to be stalking was actually Count Germaine, directing his tantric pupils from Amsterdam. Fish had also mentioned that four of the murders had taken place there. There was also the possibility that Milara was controlling his disciples from Tibet.

He rejected the theories as being without basis. Though it was critical that he move quickly, he could act only on hard evidence.

After exhausting every shade in the dark spectrum of his thoughts, Orient began the physical exercises of the yang series, continued the difficult movements until his body was also spent.

Then he went into the deep-breathing patterns of the yin series, transporting his consciousness beyond its wearied limits. He traveled inward through the galaxies of his chemistry until he found their center, the code gene fueling all actuality and potential. Drawn by the energy of the single sun blazing with the elements of his past, present, and future, he entered its flowing gravity, leaving his time-burdened identity behind.

Orient remained in meditation for hours, until his emotions were in complete control and his mind clearly balanced.

It was then that he realized that if Lily was under some extranormal influence, there was something he could do to break its control.

Secure in his purpose, he went back to the bedroom and made up a shopping list. Then he went down to the studio, gave Sordi the list, and asked him to make the necessary purchases. The articles he'd listed were all necessary, but difficult to find, pieces of electronic equipment used in their experiments, but most important, the errand ensured that he would be alone with Lily that day.

When Sordi was gone, Orient went to the kitchen, poured some salt into a glass, then came back to the studio and placed the glass on the bar behind some bottles.

For the next few hours he went through his collection of ancient manuals, handwritten grimoires, illuminated texts, and personal notebooks, refreshing his familiarity with the myriad formulas and techniques of occult science.

He found that his ability to absorb information was remarkably increased by the serenity achieved through his meditation.

The instant he saw Lily, however, a stubborn ember of longing began to smolder at the corner of his control.

She looked stunning. Her long copper hair was pulled back, framing the chiseled perfection of her features, and the flared tweed jacket and tight suede skirt she wore accentuated the dynamic contours of her body.

Her kiss of greeting was modest but affectionate.

"It's good to see you, Owen," she whispered, smoky amber eyes searching his face.

He smiled. "You're lovelier than ever."

But as he spoke, he saw the drawn, tense lines beneath the cosmetics glazing her skin, and realized she was under considerable strain.

"Want a drink?" he asked softly.

"A big vodka and rocks would be very nice. But only if you join me."

While Orient was preparing the drinks, he poured some water into the glass of salt he'd prepared earlier and muttered an invocation under his breath.

"Grant that this salt may make for the health of the body, and this water the health of the soul, and that there be banished from this place every power, illusion, and artifice of evil by the Lord Elohim Sabaoth."

He knew that the simple formula would absorb all negative vibrations in the room and enable him to penetrate the wall of tensions surrounding Lily.

When he returned with the drinks, she seemed more at ease. Her smile was generous as she patted the cushion beside her.

"Now, tell me what you've been doing these days. Still working on the film project?"

"Actually, I've been thinking about you."

Lily raised her glass. "To happy thoughts."

Relief broke through Orient's defenses when he saw the diamond pendant dangling from the chain around her wrist. He leaned closer and touched the edge of his glass to hers.

"Have you been happy?"

She glanced away. "I suppose I've been too busy to ask myself that. I've always assumed that happiness was not being bored."

"Perhaps that's true."

She took a long swallow of vodka, then looked up at him, eyes dark with brooding. "I don't know if I believe that anymore, Owen."

"Aren't you enjoying your stay with Christian?" He was grateful that he was able to keep his tone neutral, like a physician asking a patient where it hurts.

"Oh, it's exciting in a way. All the special people, lots of special events." She sighed and set her glass down. "But I've been feeling a bit tired lately. Think I need a long rest."

"A rest from the social whirl?"

"From everything. Maybe Christian too. He leads a fabulous life, but he's really quite aloof in private. We seem to see each other only at parties. Especially now that his protege is winning all those tournaments. Christian's real passion these days is professional tennis."

"Must be profitable, judging from his estate."

"Oh, he's sort of a speculator, besides his interest in tennis. He owns stock in some baseball and football teams, finances, films, has oil options, that sort of thing. He is quite brilliant, but sometimes..." She picked up her glass.

"Sometimes what?"

She shook her head.

"Sometimes... well, he's just not there. We're together, but his mind is somewhere else. There are moments I think he isn't really human, just some kind of complicated machine. I can't communicate with him. That's why I want to leave him."

"Is he involved with the tantric rite?" he asked gently.

She shrugged.

"Claims to be interested. I know he and Oliver have spoken about it several times. But he's too busy, just like you were. He does want me to teach him the telepathic technique, though. He's extremely interested in hearing about your experiments."

This time Orient was unable to keep the intensity out of his voice. "Is Christian interested in occult studies as well?"

She hesitated, a curious expression of sadness dimming her eyes.

"He does seem to know a lot about it. He was a great help to me during the moon period. I had another of those violent seizures. Funny, I thought I'd gotten over them while we were together. But Christian managed to calm me down."

"What kind of treatment did he use?"

She stood up and began pacing nervously.

"I don't remember. At the time, I was fully out of control. I think he just talked to me. He can be very kind if he feels it's necessary." Her face suddenly brightened, relaxing the lines around her mouth.

"It's been fun, of course. In fact, quite exhilarating. But lately I've been thinking about you more and more. I do miss those cozy, private days we shared." Coming closer, she reached out and lightly brushed his neck with her fingertips. "I am sorry about that rotten parting."

"So am I." He inhaled the fresh fragrance of her skin.

She held out her hand. "Please take me to your room. I think I left something behind there."

They walked slowly upstairs, hands clasped tight.

"What did you forget?" he asked when they reached the bedroom. "I thought you made a clean sweep."

"Not entirely." Smiling, she pulled him gently toward the bed. "There was something very dear I neglected to bring along."

Then her body was writhing under his, her voice cashmere soft against his ear.

"I forgot you, my love."

A lightning charge of animal desire burned away his control, electrifying every nerve. He was aware of Lily tugging at his clothes, and felt her hands gliding feverishly over his skin, their caress leaving a tingling trail of heat that consumed everything except his fierce need.

Moaning, she ground her hips urgently against his, and when he entered her yielding wetness, taut strands of excitement stretched across his belly. Then her moans rose to frantic mewls that battered against his own unrestrained sounds, bursting the ecstatic tension into steaming fragments of pleasure....

Afterward he felt completely relaxed, even somewhat optimistic. He lay silently next to Lily's cool, naked body, considering what it would mean if she returned to him.

If he could draw her from Christian's influence, it would also serve to break the links of power the baron had achieved through the sacrificial rite. Now that he was certain it was Christian's bracelet in Jojo's coffin, he could also believe Lily had nothing to do with the murders. He could focus his energies on Orgaz and Fish.

Lily stirred lazily and opened one eye.

"Feels like home, doesn't it?"

"You are home."

She tried to smile, and winced instead.

He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her. "Something wrong?"

"I think all the excitement gave me a small headache. Could you get me a couple of aspirin and some ice water?"

As Orient walked downstairs, he was still contemplating Lily's change of heart. Her return would give everything balance. He found aspirin in the studio, then went into the kitchen for ice. Going back upstairs, he decided that he'd ask Lily not to go back to the estate for her things. He would go see Orgaz himself. If she objected, they could go together.

But when he entered the bedroom, he found her already dressed. A sharp anxiety shattered his optimism.

"Going out?"

She looked up, eyes vague, and smiled emptily, as if seeing a stranger. "I have to meet Christian in a little while. I didn't realize the time."

He stared at her disbelievingly.

"You said you were finished with Christian," he managed after a few confused seconds.

Her smile became patronizing.

"Surely you didn't take my little complaints seriously? I just said I was getting a bit tired of the routine. But not that I intended leaving Christian." She reached out her hand. "Do give me the aspirin, love. I've got to run. I'll ring you soon."

Orient waited until she'd swallowed the pills, anxiety churning his emotions like an eggbeater.

"You can't go back to him," he blurted. "You've got to stay here."

Her expression went from surprise to amusement. "You can't be serious, Owen. I never thought you'd take it this way."

"It has nothing to do with us anymore. Christian is dangerous." He grasped her shoulders tightly. "You must try to understand. I've reason to believe that he and Oliver are involved in a sacrificial rite. At least two, and perhaps as many as fifteen men have already been murdered."

"But, darling, this is fantastic," Lily protested, struggling to pull away. "Do you have any proof of these wild accusations?"

Realizing that it was crucial that he remain calm, Orient relaxed his grip and gathered his concentration around his scattered control.

"I've been investigating one of the killings for almost two months," he said slowly, lowering his voice. "Four days ago one of my contacts was killed, and yesterday his body was stolen. There's also been an attempt on my own life."

"But what proof do you have that Christian is involved. Or Oliver?"

Orient took a deep breath. "I found Christian's bracelet in the empty coffin. A diamond-shaped pendant, like the one you're wearing now."

"Let me see it," she demanded. "I'll tell you if it's his."

"Oliver made off with it," he said softly, searching her face for some sign of belief. "I don't have the bracelet now, or any other tangible evidence, but I'm telling you the truth."

"I'm sorry, Owen," she said crisply, edging toward the door. "It isn't enough. I know at least four other people who wear this kind of bracelet. Christian likes to give them as personal mementos."

Orient understood that Lily would become hysterical if he forcibly tried to stop her. He could sense the nervous energy buzzing around her like a cloud of angry insects. He followed her out of the room, ransacking his mind for some way to get through that thick field of hostility.

Suddenly, as he hurried downstairs after her, he remembered, and understood what had happened. The salt-and-water invocation had purified the studio, but the rest-of the house was unprotected. That accounted for Lily's sudden change of mood. When they went up to the bedroom, Orgaz was able to reestablish psychic control of her actions.

He managed to get in front of her, and held out his hands.

"Hey, wait a minute," he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "Just hold on one second before you leave. There's something in the studio I want to show you. I think you'll understand what I mean when you see it."

When he saw her eyes dart fearfully to the study door, he knew he'd guessed correctly. Lily was afraid to enter the purified room again.

"Please, Owen," she whispered, half-pleading. "I must go. I'll call you tomorrow."

"You can go," he assured her. "But it'll only take a second to step inside and see. It might change your mind about a lot of things."

She glanced again at the door, anxiously fingering the strap of her shoulder bag.

"I don't have time," she rasped. "I have an urgent appointment."

As he reached out for her, the doorbell rang. At that moment Lily ducked under his arm, slipping past him. Before he could recover, she was almost at the bottom of the stairs. He was just behind her when she ran to the front door and flung it open.

A blond youth stood in the doorway.

Orient recognized the boy from Orgaz' reception. It was the youth he'd seen deep in conversation with Oliver as he was leaving.

"Oh, Henry, it's you," Lily exclaimed with obvious relief. "I'm so glad you're here. I thought I was going to be late."

"Christian sent me to pick you up," the boy said, eyeing Orient coldly. "He thought you'd been delayed."

Lily's smile was mockingly triumphant.

"Good-bye, Owen," she purred. "I'll think about everything you've told me."

He moved to stop her, but Henry stepped between them. Without changing expression, the boy reached up and gripped Orient's neck with one hand, pressing a thumb into the gland under his chin.

An intense flash of pain drove Orient back against the door. From a blurred corner of his vision he saw Lily run across the street to a black limousine, and tried to twist away from the boy's grip.

"Lady Sativa has an appointment," Henry said calmly. A crooked hint of a smile broke his impassive stare, and he pressed his thumb harder, causing Orient's knees to buckle in agony.

"Christian is a stickler for promptness," the boy explained apologetically. Then he released Orient's neck and hurried to the limousine.

Orient's wrinkled hands opened and closed with impotent rage as he watched the car pull away, the pain in his body tormented by stinging darts of desperation.

He remained there for a long time, gazing bitterly at the empty street, before closing the door and walking slowly up the stairs to the studio.

Ignoring the throbbing bruises of flesh and emotion, he began searching intently through his library. He was still flashing microfilm slides of rare texts a few hours later when Sordi returned.

"Well, how did it go?" Sordi asked, voice and expression discreetly neutral. "Did you get things patched up with Lily?"

"No." Orient's features were obscured by the shadows in the screening pit, but the hollow distance in his voice aroused Sordi's concern.

"Something go wrong?"

"Yes." He switched on the light, revealing dark circles around his haggard green eyes. "Please call Sybelle. Ask her to come right over. If she has an appointment, ask her to cancel. Tell her it's urgent."

While Sordi attended to Sybelle, Orient pushed the button for his other line and called Memphis.

Both women arrived almost simultaneously, about a half-hour later.

"I rushed over as quickly as I could," Sybelle clamored excitedly as she entered the study. "What's going on?"

Her tone became less strident when she saw Orient's face.

"What's wrong, darling? Did you find out something about poor Arnold?"

He nodded. "It's a long story. That's why I asked you to come."

Memphis came to his side and took his hand. "You look awful. Are you feeling well?" she asked softly.

Her touch seemed to disperse the aching throb in his brain.

"I'm all right." He kissed her gently, then looked up at Sybelle and Sordi, who were watching with intense interest.

"We may as well all sit down at the table." He sighed. "There's a lot to talk about."

He began by explaining to Memphis how he became involved with Arnold's murder, then went on to tell her about the destructive attack by the skull during the seance, the theft of Arnold's body, and his subsequent investigation. For once Sybelle neglected to interrupt with questions as he told them about the encounter with Fish when they went to exorcise Jojo's body.

Sordi verified the discovery of the pendant bracelet and its theft by Oliver, then waited for him to continue.

Slowly, and with great difficulty, Orient related the events of the afternoon, including Lily's agitated reluctance to enter the purified room.

"The connections are all too close," he concluded wearily, trying to lift his thoughts above the insistent pounding in his temples. "Lily and Fish are both involved with the tantric rite. Granted, that in itself is neutral. But when you add up that crystal skull on Oliver's stick, Lily's involvement with Orgaz, then finding Christian's favorite piece of jewelry in Jojo's empty coffin, the weight of evidence leans toward one of them. Perhaps all three."

"Suppose it wasn't Christian's bracelet, as Lily claims," Sybelle suggested, "but some demented acquaintance of his."

Orient shook his head.

"I'll admit that, singly, each stitch of evidence is flimsy. But Lily did admit that the bracelet was the baron's personal token. Taken with everything else, it takes on significant proportions. Like Oliver's coup last night."

"Well, he might have been telling the truth about being after this Von Hausoff person, and the trinity of the Broken Cross. Arnold did mention a trinity during the seance."

"Perhaps. But then why did he steal the bracelet? Seems more reasonable to assume that he came back for a piece of incriminating evidence." He shrugged. "Even if he was telling the truth, that pendant still points to Orgaz and Lily. She's completely under his influence."

"There was that near-tragedy the night we met," Memphis reminded. "Someone slashed Owen's tire, then almost ran him down while he was trying to fix it. Even then you thought someone had set you up for a convenient accident."

He nodded, brow furrowed.

"Someone's obviously been tracking my investigation very carefully. That's why Jojo was chosen to be sacrificed, and his body removed so quickly. Remember, it was only by chance the police discovered the murder. Probably they were waiting to take the body to a safe place. And there's something else to keep in mind. Fish was at the bar where I first met Jojo. And he, like Christian, moves in homosexual circles."

"But why did he tell you about the other killings?" Sybelle protested. "Surely you'll admit it wasn't necessary."

Orient shrugged. "We had him red-handed, and he didn't know how much we already knew. Perhaps he hoped to convince us he wasn't involved by telling us a half-truth."

"Well, anyway, we know what the trinity is," Sordi muttered. "But what's that damned L brand stand for?"

No one answered. Memphis reached out and covered Orient's hand with her warm ivory fingers. "What will you do now? Do you think it'll help to go to the authorities?"

"Not at all," he grunted. "We have no tangible evidence that Baron Orgaz, Lily, or Fish had anything to do with the killings. They'd put my story down as the ravings of a religious fanatic. But I do have another plan."

"Baron Orgaz, Lily, and Oliver." Sordi chuckled. "That's some trinity right there."

Sybelle favored him with a smile, and patted her frizzy corona of red hair.

"It all does seem to point their way," she agreed. "But I still find it difficult to believe Lily's involved."

Sordi began laughing softly.

"She's part of the trinity. Orgaz, Oliver, and Lily. Get it?"

Sybelle looked uncomfortable. "Not really, dear."

Still chortling, Sordi took her arm.

"Sure you do," he insisted. "The three of them..."

The rest of his remark was lost in his rising peals of laughter.

Both Orient and Memphis stared in stunned surprise, as Sordi's merriment swelled to a disturbingly high-pitched cackle.

"Please, darling!" Sybelle cried out sharply. "You're hurting my arm."

Sordi seemed not to hear. His face contorted in a grimace of rage, and his eyes rolled back into their sockets, so that only the whites were visible. He staggered to his feet, jerking Sybelle up from her chair, his laughter intensifying until it shattered the air like the frantic whine of an electronic siren.

"You're hurting me!" Sybelle screamed.

With a violent motion Sordi threw her to the floor, picked up a chair, and raised it over his head.

"Owen, he's crazy, he's gone mad!" Memphis yelled, her voice cracking against the shrill edge of Sordi's howling babble.

Chapter 17

Orient was already in motion when Memphis cried out.

He dived head-first across the table, grabbed the uplifted chair with one hand, and chopped down hard against the back of Sordi's neck with the other.

The blow seemed to have no effect. Orient leaped off the table, tackling Sordi around the shoulders, sending them both sprawling to the floor.

"Get some rope," he grunted, kicking the fallen chair away from Sordi's scrambling fingers.

He struggled grimly to hold down the wildly heaving body beneath him, knowing that with each second he was losing momentum. He had his knee jammed into Sordi's neck and was twisting one arm behind his back, but it wasn't enough. Screaming and thrashing, Sordi fought back with a frenzied rage that was stronger than Orient's fear.

Sordi had almost wriggled free when Memphis threw herself against him, her weight giving Orient enough leverage to pin him down again.

Orient took the length of curtain rope from her outstretched hand, but found that even with the burden of another body Sordi was threatening to break free.

"Give me the rope," Sybelle shouted. "You hold him."

After a few tentative passes around Sordi's viciously kicking feet, Sybelle plopped her bulk down on his knees and deftly bound his ankles. With Memphis' help she tied the other end around his wrists, and in a few exhausting moments it was finished. Orient got to his feet and stumbled out of the room, followed by Sordi's incessant yowls of torment.

He quickly returned with a box of salt and glass of water. Crouching down, he carefully made a circle around Sordi's twisting body with the salt, making sure it ran in a clockwise direction.

"In the name which is above every other name, Adonai, lord of angels and men," he murmured as he poured, "I exorcise thee, creature of earth, by the living God."

When the circle was complete, he stood and pointed the first and second fingers of his right hand at Sordi, who was rolling back and forth, moaning as he tried to move his trussed body out of the circle.

Keeping his arms stiff, Orient inscribed the pentacle of the five-pointed star over the circle. At each angle of the pentagram of Solomon he invoked the names of power.

"Adni, Agla, Yah, Tetragramaton," he intoned, raising his voice above Sordi's tortured squeals, "by the power of the mighty Elohim and Sabaoth, I license and order all evil to depart from this holy circle."

When he poured the water onto the salt, Orient saw a vague mist rising over Sordi's straining body. The mist swirled thicker, until it formed a yellowish egg-shaped cloud.

Suppressing violent tremors of panic that shuddered through his awareness, Orient squeezed his will, fixing his concentration on the final words of dismissal.

"By the most secret and powerful name lah, be gone from this place to whence you came."

The yellow cloud compressed, taking on the distinct features of a gaping skull, before it expanded and shattered. At that moment, a small, sharp explosion cracked across the room. Then a cottony silence rushed in to stuff the emptiness.

For long minutes all remained still within its thick folds, until Sordi's low groan pierced the quiet.

Orient stepped into the circle and began to untie his wrists.

"Are you sure he's... well now?" Sybelle asked apprehensively.

"Hope so." Orient pulled the cord from Sordi's legs and rolled him gently on his back.

Sordi's bloodless face was covered with a slippery film of perspiration, and his eyes bulged as he painfully struggled to breathe. Orient placed his hands at the back of his neck, letting his own energy charge Sordi's parched cells, and absorbing the negative residue with his sensitized fingers. In a short time Sordi was able to sit up.

"What the hell... happened?" he croaked hoarsely. "I feel like a used soccer ball."

"Don't you remember anything?" Orient asked softly.

"Just that we were talking about what to do about the murders when my head blew up, the lights went out, and when I woke up I was strung up like some kind of salami."

"I'm afraid you were possessed, darling," Sybelle informed him, striding purposefully to the liquor cabinet. "You attacked me, and Owen had to exorcise you."

She poured four large snifters of brandy as Memphis and Orient helped him to a chair.

"Now, all of you drink this down," she directed as she served. "We need a boost right now."

She drained her own glass and looked at them.

"Well, I stand corrected, darling. You certainly weren't exaggerating. But can we do anything about it? Perhaps we should try one of the rites of destruction."

Orient shook his head. "One mistake, and the entire negative field would be beyond our control. Unless we know exactly what kind of rite Orgaz is employing, we can't do anything. We'd only destroy ourselves if we tried."

Memphis put an anxious hand on his shoulder.

"You mean we have to stand by and let these people keep on killing?"

"Tomorrow," he told her, "in the morning, I'm going out to see Orgaz and Lily."

As he explained his plan, Orient was aware of a gnawing doubt. Something about Sordi's possession still disturbed him. But he wasn't sure what it was.

Memphis interrupted his speculations. "But, Owen, are you sure going there is wise? If you're right, he's a murderer."

He smiled faintly.

"Don't forget, I'll have an escape hatch. I'll be in telepathic contact with Sybelle, and Sordi can man the phone in the car. If anything goes wrong, we can instantly relay a message to the police."

"It is the only positive thing we can do," Sybelle agreed reluctantly. "But won't you be quite sensitive while you're in touch with me? I mean, if Christian has enough power to possess dear Sordi long-range, then he might be capable of getting at you. Especially if you're in the same room with your consciousness wide open."

"It's a calculated risk. I'll take the proper precautions before I go out there. It'll also be broad daylight. Usually sunlight weakens ritual power. And of course he won't be prepared for a visit so soon."

"What can you accomplish?" Memphis persisted. "I know you're not prepared to shoot him down or anything remotely like that."

He looked at her.

"You're right. But maybe I can find out what kind of rite he's employing. That's the key to stopping him."

After an hour, Sordi's bruised muscles began to stiffen, but despite Sybelle's protests, he insisted on escorting her home.

"Look at this," Sybelle exclaimed as they were leaving. "That's what caused the horrible explosion we heard."

Sordi whistled softly.

"The whole door panel is broken in two," he said in hushed tones. "Whoever this killer is, he's pretty strong."

Orient and Memphis went over to inspect the damage. The door to the study was made of thick oak, but it was cracked clear through, as if struck by a giant ax.

"A parting shot by the hostile elemental as it was forced away," Orient observed. "Perhaps we shouldn't bother installing a new one until this is over."

Memphis shivered. "It's almost... awesome. Still sure you want to go through with your plan?"

"No," he grunted. "I'm not. But it's our only chance."

Orient struggled to keep his spreading doubts from spilling over into pessimism, but a persistent depression mocked his efforts. Every instinct warned that there was something strange about Sordi's possession.

Memphis echoed his thoughts. "I still feel like there's something hovering in this room. That's one of the reasons I didn't want you to stay here alone."

He smiled, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Actually, there probably is some residue. Let's go do something about it."

They went to the kitchen, where Orient took two fresh onions from the refrigerator.

"This is an old Welsh miner's trick as well as an occult formula," he explained, cutting each onion in half. "They used freshly cut onions to detect poison gases in the mines. But in occult science onions are very effective for absorbing negative emanations."

Returning to the study, Orient placed the four onion halves in each corner of the room, moving from east to south, west to north, and invoking the names of Adonai, Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel at each angle.

"That should take care of the fallout," he told her when it was finished.

"You've got quite a batch of recipes," Memphis commented. "Where did you learn about exorcising people and spells of destruction anyway?"

"It's my hobby. Like astrology."

"Oh, no you don't. Astrology is a nice refined combination of astronomy and math. No sticking pins in wax dolls for us."

Orient snapped his fingers. "That may be it."

"Pins in wax dolls?"

"Something like that. Come on." He took her hand and walked rapidly toward the stairs. "I think we can find out in my room."

Memphis patiently waited while Orient rummaged through everything in the bedroom. He went through his closet and every drawer before he was through.

"What are you searching for?" she asked after a while.

When he looked at her, his dark skin was stretched tight over the bones of his face, pulling at his rueful smile until it became an admission of defeat.

"Just checking to see if anything's missing."

"Is there?"

He nodded. "A couple of things. A chart I'd made of the suspects in Arnold's death." His brow furrowed, and he went back to the closet. "What was the other thing?"

"A dream diary of mine."

"A what?"

"Dream diary. When I have a dream, I write it down. You'd be surprised what you can learn about yourself... and other matters."

After a short time he shut the closet door.

"Something else is gone too. A snakeskin vest."

"The one you wore to the party. I remember that one. And it looked so well on you."

His voice was hollow.

"It wasn't mine. I borrowed it from Sordi. That's why he was possessed and not me."

She stared at him for a few moments. "I don't really understand what you're saying.

He sat down wearily on the bed.

"I'm just beginning to get it myself. It seemed odd that someone could invoke negative elementals without a point d'appui, a magnetic point of contact. I thought it was some unfamiliar form of attack until you reminded me that small pieces of the victim's clothing or personal objects are used in wax dolls to create empathy. I was the intended victim, after all. The plan probably was to gain control and have me kill everyone in the room. That would have disposed of all obstacles. No jury would accept a defense of demonic possession. Really perfect. Except for one mistake. Sordi's vest was stolen instead of mine."

"But who took those things, Owen?"

He looked up, eyes dull and lost.

"Lily did, this afternoon."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"I wrote something in the diary just this morning. This afternoon, when Lily came to visit, she seemed nervous. After I purified the room, she calmed down and hinted she wanted to leave Christian. Like a fool, I went for it and let her lure me out of the study. Later she sent me out of the bedroom for some aspirin. That's when she must have taken everything she needed."

Memphis grinned. "Don't feel too bad. Most men are highly susceptible to being lured into bedrooms by beautiful women."

He tried to smile, gave it up, and stared down at his clenched hands, mouth compressed into a thin line.

She went to the bed and sat down beside him.

"I know how you must feel." She reached up and caressed his hair. "Being betrayed by someone you love is the most damaging wound."

"I thought I could accomplish two things," he murmured, almost to himself. "Prevent Lily from destroying herself, and break Christian's power. I was overestimating my abilities."

"Not really. You made a mistake, that's all. So did they. Don't forget that. Don't let it destroy you inside. I know you don't have Lily, but you're not alone." She took his head in her velvet fingers and turned his face to hers. Her eyes were dark opals against her creamy skin, their light shimmering between understanding and sadness.

"If you need a slightly used astrologer," she whispered, "I'm right here."

Her warm touch and vibrant voice rushed in to cover his despair like cool butter spreading over blistered flesh. He reached out, and she was in his arms, the lavender scent of her hair mingling with the salty odor of fresh tears. A flash of desire charged his senses, quickening his heartbeat. Then he felt her body stiffen and withdraw.

"Not now, darling," she was saying. "Not yet."

She kissed him gently.

"It's too soon." She took a deep breath. "Maybe I'm being selfish, but when it happens, I want it to be all me. No rebounds, just me. That's the way I feel about you."

He nuzzled away the tension pulling at the corners of her pink mouth.

"It's the only way. And worth waiting for."

Suddenly the gaunt lines of his face were softened by an effortless smile.

"But we'd better go downstairs. Sitting with you on this bed is wearing down my resolve."

When they went back to the study, they found that Sordi had returned.

"Anyone care for a nightcap?" he asked hopefully. "I need something after the wrestling match tonight."

Memphis smiled and nodded. "Two short ones. We're in the same condition."

When Sordi gave her a glass, she lifted it to Orient. "To another day, and our success tomorrow."

Orient slowly lowered his glass.

"Not really all of us tomorrow. Just Sordi, Sybelle, and me. You're staying home."

"That's not fair, darling," Memphis exploded. "I am a grown woman and very capable of handling myself."

He shook his head.

"You're not really involved, and there's no sense tempting trouble. As you reminded me, we're dealing with a mass killer. And not an ordinary one. I felt you should know what was happening for your own protection. But I can't let you become a target for any future attacks."

"I was here tonight. Doesn't that make me involved?"

Orient started to speak, then shrugged and walked slowly to the corner of the room. He picked something up from the floor and held it out to her.

"Look at this, then decide," he suggested.

Memphis went to his side and examined the object in his hand. For a long time she was silent.

"I suppose you're right," she whispered finally, unable to take her eyes from the shriveled, blackened stump of onion resting in his wrinkled palm.

Chapter 18

At nine the next morning Orient, Sordi, and Sybelle started out on the long drive to Orgaz' estate.

Sordi and Sybelle listened quietly while Orient told them about the missing objects in his room, then went over his plan of operation.

"It's important that you remain absolutely passive," he reminded Sybelle. "Don't attempt to go active for any reason. I won't send unless there's a snag."

"I just don't know, darling." She sighed. "I really despise the idea of your being exposed to such danger."

"As I said before, it's a calculated risk. But if anything happens, you alert Sordi and he'll phone the police. I doubt if Christian will risk any trouble with the authorities. There's also an element of surprise in our favor, and the fact that daylight will weaken his powers. Most likely he'll be unable to generate negative energy on short notice."

"There's something I've been worried about," Sordi said softly. "If both of you are open, wouldn't Orgaz be able to get at Sybelle through you? Then it'll be easy to take care of all of us. Like he tried last night."

"That's also a risk," Orient admitted. "But remember, he needed a link last night. Without your vest he wouldn't have been able to establish empathy. That means he's still operating within certain bounds. Probably he'll be able to transcend them after he completes his rite. A four-year cycle of sacrifice will generate enormous power. But he still hasn't achieved that level. So far, we've been able to neutralize two attacks."

"Oh, dear, I really am so upset about what Lily did." Sybelle flashed him a sympathetic smile. "But I'm sure it's due to Christian's evil influence."

To his relief, Orient found that he felt neither anger nor sorrow at the reminder of Lily's treachery, only a bitter emptiness. She and Sordi were the only ones who were aware of the fact that he recorded his dreams, which meant she'd taken the diary on her own, and not because of Christian's distracting influence.

As Sordi and Sybelle maintained a steady stream of conversation, he retreated into silence. He, too, had serious misgivings about confronting Orgaz. The theft of the dream diary was a significant loss. It gave Christian a profound personal profile and a deadly weapon. Studying the diary, Orgaz would learn every stress point, buried fear, and undefended weakness in his psyche.

Instead of dwelling on his regrets, however, he used the time it took them to reach the estate to prepare his defenses. After achieving a deep, steady level of awareness with his breathing patterns, he invoked the power of Mars and fixed an image of the equilimbed cross in his mind.

Unlike the Calvary cross, whose shaft measures double the length of the crossbar, and which is the cross of sacrifice, the equilimbed cross referred Orient to the four elements of existence, and the living power of Adonai. As he mentally repeated the words of the formula, he imagined the cross becoming a flaming sword in his hands.

"We're almost there."

Sordi's warning sliced through the layers of time covering his consciousness.

Orient sat up and focused his total awareness on the physical reality of his mission.

As they neared the estate, Sordi and Sybelle fell silent, and the only sounds in the car were the subdued hum of the motor, the light ticking of the clock, and the faint pumping of human hearts.

Sordi braked a short distance from the gates, then backed around a bend in the road until the car was out of sight.

It was the moment Sybelle had been dreading.

She accepted the fact that something had to be done to stop the murders, and trusted Owen implicitly, but was woefully unsure of her own ability to maintain concentration. Any lapse could be fatal for all of them.

Owen seemed to understand her plight. He reached out and touched her shoulder.

"It's just like the experiments in the meditation room," he said softly. "You've done it hundreds of times."

The depth of calm in his voice was reflected by the clarity in his green eyes, and his fingers seemed to transmit soothing vibrations of energy across her anxieties. Without hesitating, she went into the primary breathing patterns of the yin series.

When her fears were immersed completely within the serene pool of her awareness, she went receptive. Immediately she felt a familiar tug at the base of her brain, and sensed the picture.

A flaming equilimbed cross.

"What was it?" he whispered.

"Cross of Nature... on fire." She grinned, encouraged by her ability to respond without breaking concentration.

"That's fine. Just hold it right there, and if anything happens, shut down right away."

"Good luck, doctor," Sordi mumbled, his frown drawn tight by the tension winding around them like a noiseless boa.

A reassuring smile lifted one corner of Orient's wide mouth, and he opened the door.

Streaks of sunlight poured through a tattered umbrella of tree limbs, spattering the rural road with muted colors, as Orient sauntered casually toward the gates. It could have been a restful painting of a country hike, but as Sybelle watched him disappear around the bend, apprehension shaded the placid pastoral scene with a sinister hue. It somehow seemed too quiet. She took a deep breath and glanced at Sordi.

He was staring straight ahead, arms folded, his forehead wrinkled with worry.

As the minutes passed, Sybelle continued the breathing pattern, extending her receptive orbit. Even though Owen wasn't sending, she could feel his faintly pulsing energy as her sensitivity increased, and its rhythms seemed to calm her; then, abruptly, everything stopped.

Sybelle began a long, silent struggle to maintain the receptive orbit against the onslaught of anxiety threatening its balance.

Sordi seemed to sense something was wrong. He gripped the wheel with both hands, squinting at her nervously. Fortunately, he said nothing, enabling her to keep total focus on the passive center of her concentration. Then a gentle but unpleasant probe tickled the base of her brain, and the picture appeared.

A hand holding a revolver.

"Call the police," she hissed.

Sordi simultaneously revved up the motor and picked up the phone. Another probe pierced Sybelle's panic. A picture of a phone being lifted, then replaced, and a hand covering the dial.

"Hold it," she snapped. "Not yet."

As the seconds dragged into minutes, Sybelle suppressed her rising pulse rate and tried to hold the balance of her passive orbit steady. There was nothing.

She knew she was disobeying Owen's instructions by remaining sensitive, but couldn't bear the prospect of leaving him without any means of communication. Her apprehensions grew heavier, their friction making concentration very difficult, and she began perspiring freely.

Afresh breeze of relief cooled her agitation when she saw Owen coming around the bend. It evaporated as soon as she made out the hollow shadows of defeat haunting his gaunt features.

When he entered the car, he slumped wearily in the back seat and examined his knuckles, eyes narrowed in thought. After a few moments he looked up.

"I was stopped by a security guard."

Sybelle sensed the raging desperation beneath his easy tone, and was suddenly afraid for him.

"Orgaz and Lily are gone," he was saying. "Christian's closed the house and left the country. He didn't leave any forwarding address."

During the drive back to the city Orient remained enclosed in a grim, dark chamber of brooding, emerging only to answer Sordi or Sybelle's questions with a few grudging words. He methodically gathered every fragment of thought scattered by the confusion sweeping through his brain, trying to fit them in some kind of functional order.

The first thing he'd have to do was find out where Orgaz had gone. The security guard hadn't known anything, and it would take weeks to trace Christian's destination, even with private detectives. And one approaching certainty divided time into preciously small quantities. In eight days the moon would be full.

Though he still hadn't any evidence of a significant moon pattern connected to the killings, Orient knew that Lily became highly sensitive during its major phase, and would be completely susceptible to any pressure Orgaz or Oliver cared to exert.

Not that she was unwilling, he reluctantly reminded, the memory of her betrayal lashing at his drained emotions. He breathed deeply, lifting his consciousness above the painful tangle of feeling.

There was one way to find out where they'd gone, but it meant exposing himself completely to Christian's power. It would take two consecutive nights of preparation to set up a complete defense, and even then he couldn't be sure it would be sufficient.

By the time they'd reached the city, he'd decided.

He had to try it that night. Since full preparation gave him little assurance, he may as well make the attempt right away. If he succeeded, there'd be a chance.

He pushed aside the knowledge of what would happen if he failed, and began making a list of the things he'd need.

"Sybelle, I think I'm going to need your help tonight," he said softly. "Are you game?"

"Do politicians lie? What do you have in mind, darling?"

"A little experiment in divining. On the astral plane."

"Well, that sounds interesting," she gushed enthusiastically. Then her birdlike features compressed into a shrewdly appraising stare.

"Wherever did you learn to negotiate astral planes, Owen? That's a rather esoteric skill for a physician."

He shrugged and looked out the window.

"Just something I picked up during my research."

Before she could continue, he directed Sordi to a few stores in lower Manhattan, where he made some necessary purchases.

When they reached the house, Orient filled a large shopping bag with the material he required, then went downstairs to the altar room beneath the garage. Before stepping through the narrow door, he removed his shoes.

The room was empty except for a low, hexagon-shaped table at the far end, made of black wood. The walls and floor were lined with white tile, to facilitate marking and cleaning. Orient had installed the tiles and built the altar table by hand, as required by the laws of occult science.

Since the room was seldom used, his first task was to wash everything with soap and water. When that was finished, he began the preparations he'd learned on the holy mountain in Tibet overlooking the valley of the Wesak. The formula given him by Ku for invoking the martial protection of the secret chiefs.

He removed some implements from the shopping bag and began placing them on the small altar. First a square of red cloth, woven of pure linen. Then five red candles were arranged on the cloth, so that each candle was the point of an invisible pentagon.

Red was the color of Mars, five his number, and each of the other instruments he would use was also appropriate to the God of War. All were made of steel or iron: the long table knife that would serve as his sword; the carpenter's hammer that was his rod of power; and the bowl in which he'd burn sulfur and saltpeter, both minerals of Mars' domain.

Using a length of string as compass, he drew two large concentric circles on the floor. Between the inner and outer rims he carefully printed the words "Eshiel," "Ithuriel," "Nadamiel," and "Barzachia." Then, with a ruler, he drew the figure of the equilimbed Cross of Nature in the exact center of the inner circle.

At each angle of the cross he printed the letters A, G, L, A. Then he struck a match, lit the candle wicks of the pentagon, and dropped the flame into the bowl containing the minerals. The mustard-colored fumes gave off the odor of spoiled eggs.

Finally he removed his clothes, stuffed them into the shopping bag, and placed the bag outside the door, next to his shoes.

Returning to the circle he'd inscribed, he assumed a full lotus position, the rod of power in his right hand, the sword in his left.

He went into a deep-breathing pattern, charging his consciousness with the grave implications of the ritual he was about to perform, and when his concentration was focused, began to invoke the warrior forces.

"Agla, Agla, Agla, Agla, Almighty God of the four parts of the universe. Through the power of Thy holy name, Tentragramaton..." he whispered, lifting the wrench above his head, "bless this rod of power in Thy name, and that of Yod and Thine aide Paliel."

When he lifted the knife, a brief squall of energy blew across his fingers.

"Bless this sword of defense in the name of Gegurah of the Fifth Sephira, the sphere of the God of Battle," he continued, stretching out both arms toward the altar. "Bless these things in Thy holy name, as Thou blessed the cloak of Elijah, so that with Thy wings I will be protected against all."

As he spoke, the words seemed to drift away and submerge into the profound current of silence circling the room.

"He shall hide me under his wings, and under his feathers shall I trust, and His truth shall be my protection," Orient intoned, listening with the seismograph of his concentration for any massing of energy. But all he could detect was the pulsing echo of his own flesh.

"Racabustira, Cabustira, Bustira, Ra."

Doubt made him feel like a child repeating meaningless sounds as he completed the formula. He got to his feet, placed the wrench and knife on the altar, then left the room.

His doubts had grown by the time he reached the study, but he kept his awareness fixed on his purpose, knowing that he'd placed his trust in the precepts of the league, and success depended on the depth of that faith.

Sybelle was waiting for him with a bloody Mary in one hand and a Bible in the other.

"Now, please don't say anything about this tiny little drink, darling," she admonished, noting his expression. "I do have my own methods, you know. Did you prepare everything?"

"The room's ready, and so am I." He glanced at the carved-wood clock on the wall. "We have about twenty minutes until sundown. That's the earliest we can start."

"Since when have you had an altar room, anyway?" she asked innocently. "I don't remember your mentioning it."

"Installed it a few years ago... for experimental purposes..." he began without enthusiasm. Then the phone rang, and he hurried to answer. When he heard Memphis' voice, the tension webbing his thoughts dissolved.

"Owen? Why haven't you called? I've been waiting. How did it go today?"

"Everything's fine. But we didn't find out a thing. Christian and Lily left the country."

"I want to see you. Can I come over there?"

"Sure. But don't rush. I'm conducting an experiment with Sybelle. We may be tied up for at least an hour."

"What kind of experiment?"

He could hear the apprehension in her question.

"I'll explain when you get here," he said gently. "Don't worry. Nothing too dangerous."

"Please be careful, darling. I'll be there soon."

Orient's smile was prompted by both pleasure and regret as he replaced the receiver.

His emotions were soothed by her concern, but he hadn't been able to tell her the whole truth. The experiment was extremely dangerous. If anything happened while he was exploring the astral, he'd remain trapped, and would be dominated body and soul by Orgaz' power. No force on earth would be able to free him.

Sybelle had finished her drink, but was still absorbed in her reading of the Bible when he returned.

"I'll go get the rest of the equipment. Do you need more time?"

"Just let me finish this page," she murmured, not looking up. "Ready in about two minutes."

When Orient entered the kitchen, he found the tray prepared and Sordi pacing nervously.

"You sure you don't need me down there?" he demanded immediately.

"Very sure. Your presence could upset the balance." Orient's expression became grim.

"Remember," he said slowly, "if either of us is acting strangely when we come back, don't wait for explanations. Get out of the house as quickly as possible. There's a chance I could be possessed, same as you were last night."

"But isn't there another way?" Sordi exploded. "It's crazy, a risk like this."

Orient picked up the tray. "It's even riskier to do nothing."

Sybelle met him at the elevator, eyes glinting like black diamonds and her expression confidently serene.

"You look as if you've prepared yourself well," he commented as they descended to the basement.

"Oh, I always find my strongest inspiration by turning to any page of the Old Testament. Over the years I've developed a kind of haphazard, I Ching-ish system of opening the book at random and concentrating on the first lines I see. In fact, since you taught me the breathing patterns, the method's become more effective than ever."

When they reached the door of the altar room, Orient slipped off his shoes and instructed her to do the same.

"Actually, all you have to do is sit in the center of the circle and maintain concentration, much the same way you did this morning," he explained, arranging the things Sordi had prepared on the floor. They were simple objects: an empty glass bowl, cruets of pure olive oil and wine vinegar, and a silver spoon.

"The only difference this time," he continued, "is that I'm going to use your energy as a combination lifeline and direction finder, so you'll have to charge active rather than passive. Choose one signal and keep sending it. If you sense any disturbance, shut down. Don't wait, like you did today."

Sybelle looked repentant.

"I will try, darling, but I can't promise. Tell me one thing, though, why didn't you make a circle of protection for yourself?"

"It would take another twenty-four hours to make it effective. I had time to consecrate only this one."

"Then why not both use it?"

"You're my most important link. If there's any disturbance, it's critical that you're protected. This way you can shut off before the circle is broken."

"I don't like it."

He shrugged.

"There's no other way. I've already taken steps to protect myself. This method really gives us two lines of defense."

"Well, all right," she grumbled, setting herself down in the circle, "but make sure you remember your own advice. If anything goes wrong, for heaven's sake don't linger. Retreat is the secret of victory, as Napoleon said."

Orient considered the source of the maxim dubious, but agreed it made sense. All he wanted was to find out where Orgaz had gone. He couldn't risk any skirmishes without knowing the source of Christian's power.

After lighting the long white candle, he removed the tray and matches from the room, then shut the door and crouched down over the empty bowl on the floor.

First he sprinkled salt on the bottom and poured a small amount of water over it. He poured oil over the water, then repeated the process, forming layers of water and oil until the bowl was half-filled. Then he dropped the spoon into the bowl and poured a small amount of vinegar into the disturbed liquid.

He bent closer to the bowl, his concentration drifting with the patterns made by its contents. Tiny islands of water swirled around globules of golden oil streaked with ruby canals, forming ever-changing shapes that drew his awareness deeper.

As he intensified his breathing, the abstract shades and textures began to expand, looming larger, until they swaddled his consciousness with a mantle of blazing color.

He understood all existence as seven primary waves of color that were one, and yet distinct. Between their implication of pure light or pure darkness were the basic elements of the universe.

He also sensed the persistent attraction of the shapeless green cloud that glowed with an intensely magnetic radiance. He reached back across perception for the link to his physical being. Clearly discernible through the haze of merging pigments was a fiery white circle. The weight of doubt dropped from his awareness, and he let himself drift closer to the lush, emerald vibration.

As he was absorbed by the verdant hue, a flicker of panic threatened to upset the balance of his passage, but he drew his faith into sharp focus and willed himself forward through the fog.

When he emerged, he was floating above a range of snow-shrouded mountain peaks. Becoming accustomed to the new perspective, he realized that his own reality was slightly altered. His projection was in the form of a young African boy, dressed in blue tribal robes that covered his naked limbs. He vaguely understood that the youth of his astral form signified the many levels of maturity he'd yet to surmount before achieving transcendence. He soared in great, lazy circles over the shadowed mountains until he glimpsed a faint patch of light coming from a valley between two of the highest peaks.

Willing himself closer, he saw that the light emanated from a vibrant aura surrounding a figure seated at the base of a large rock. Something about the figure seemed familiar, and sweet chords of happiness swelled through his being.

Then he was walking toward the luminous figure, and when he reached the man's side, knew why his senses were ringing with joy. The figure sitting peacefully beneath the huge rock was his teacher, the Master Ku.

"Welcome home, young wanderer," Ku said softly. "Come sit beside me."

A placid smile creased his parchment-thin skin into a thousand crisp folds.

"You have journeyed long to reach us."

As he sat down, the buried words of the reply flowered in his mind.

"The journey is like the flow of water."

"And water finds the thirsty man." Ku bowed his head as he completed the traditional salutation. "I know why you have come here, but I cannot help you."

Disappointment crushed his hopes like a heavy stone as he comprehended the words.

"Your faith has carried you to me," Ku was saying. "Now let it take you farther. There is one of us who can tell you what you wish to know, but to find him you must journey to the marketplace of illusion. Be warned that one may not enter there without paying some price. Take care to ask only for what is necessary, or you will lose more than yourself.

"You must find the path to the marketplace alone, and you must be wary, for truth is the rarest commodity in that unholy place." Ku's smile remained unchanged, but his voice became tinged with sadness. "The balance of the Unknown Men on the winds of the universe is eternally insecure, as that of the nine blind apes clinging to a raft of ice. The minutest choice of each master creates counterforces which ripple through all existence, affecting the equilibrium of every limb of the league. The slightest breath sends echoes to the farthest plane. We can only hope to illuminate the way, for existence has its own momentum, which cannot be halted, but merely swayed.

"You must go alone, young wanderer, for this is your fate. And your choice will affect mine, and eventually mark the path of the universe itself. Choose wisely, for your decision will guide us all through the uncharted void...."

As the words faded into the stillness, Ku reached down and took a porcelain bowl filled with dark liquid in his bony fingers. "Go now," he said softly, lifting the bowl higher.

When he looked into the dark liquid, all perception splintered into simultaneous fragments of being. He saw a star collapse; he saw an old man die in the desert; he saw the birth of a ruby-winged insect on a distant planet; he saw a temple of hammered gold on the young earth, glazed by the light of four red moons overhead; he saw a black whale spouting off the Peruvian coast; he saw inscriptions on an ancient stone and understood their wisdom; he saw a cigarette dropped on a city pavement; he saw a reed boat floating on a lake high in the Andes; he saw a jade street paved with precious stones that led to a sprawling encampment of brocaded tents....

He was walking on the street of precious stones, through the encampment. As he passed silken tents ornately festooned with braids of rare metal, he heard the urgent whispers of the hooded figures sitting alongside the road. They offered satisfaction of every desire, every whim. All was available and possible here. He kept plodding through the babble of voices, waiting to hear the one voice that could help him.

"You seek the evil one and the woman Lilith," someone declared. "I can find them for you."

He stopped. A man cloaked in a hooded green robe sat rocking on his haunches in front of a white brocade tent decorated with dusky emeralds.

"Where are they?"

"Come inside, share my hospitality, and you will know all." He took a few steps nearer.

The man stood up and pulled aside the flap of his tent.

"Welcome. I am here to help you."

He hesitated.

"Welcome," the man repeated. "My house is yours."

He dimly realized he'd made a mistake, and with a sudden gesture pulled away the hood concealing the man's face.

A slap of revulsion drove him back when he recognized Arnold Weber's terrified grimace, and he started to run.

He ran blindly past the insistent jumble of sounds until he came to an area of quiet. He was at the outer edge of the marketplace, where there were only a few tents. Ahead of him he could see where the lavishly ornamented avenue ended and became a lifeless carpet of desert stretching toward an empty horizon.

He stopped, wondering if he should search further through the tangle of merchants in the center of the city, then saw someone in a hooded red cloak beckoning to him.

He walked slowly toward the figure, ready to take flight at the first sign of danger.

"You do not trust me," the man called out, his voice lightened by amusement.

"I did not come here to find trust," he answered, coming nearer.

"You have journeyed long to reach us."

"The journey is like the flow of water."

"And water finds the thirsty man."

With the completion of the salutation he felt a fresh surge of reassurance and hurried forward. The hooded figure had given the secret greeting used by those belonging to the League of the Serene Knowledge.

"I can help you find those you seek," the man said.

"Will you take me to them?"

"You must find the way alone. I can only tell you this: if one follows the street into the desert, he will find the gates to three passages. All of them will give you what you wish, but only one of them is the passage to pure truth. The other two are portals of death. For this reason you must be sure to take the left-hand gate."

As he listened, something familiar disturbed his concentration, and he was seized with a sharp curiosity to see his adviser's face.

"Is there something else you desire?" the man asked. "If so, let it be known."

"Who are you?"

The hooded figure moved closer.

"To tell you the way to the passage of truth, I will take but a small price. However, the secret of my identity will cost you a great deal. Go now, in faith, for it is your only true wealth."

He paused, then decided. "I must know who you are. I will pay your price."

"So be it," the man whispered, lifting the red silk hood.

It was a triangular-shaped face, with iron gray eyes glowering coldly from under sharply angled brows. Along, thin nose hooked slightly overfull lips, and a narrow chin made the wide forehead seem abnormally broad in proportion.

A yawning gulf of fear swallowed his small resource of hope as he recognized the features of Count Germaine. With a strangled cry he twisted away and stumbled toward the protective emptiness of the desert.

He ran for a long time, his awareness crowded with despair. The confusion blurred his senses, causing him to lose his balance and fall. He tumbled headlong down a steep slope, hands clawing the sand, until his fingers found a small rock and clung, checking his descent.

Opening his eyes, he saw that he'd stopped halfway down a deep valley in the dunes. At the base of the incline were three copper doors.

Still gripping the rock, he stared blankly at the doors, wondering. Was Germaine the man he'd been sent to find, or had he been lured into a trap? All of his teachings would indicate the center door as the correct choice.

He reached back across his consciousness for his physical contact, and saw the iridescent circle hovering in the sky above the valley. He paused to establish closer empathy with the precious link before starting down the slope. With each step he tried to perceive the answer to the riddle of the three doors.

He decided to gamble on Germaine's instructions. Even if it was a trap, he might be able to escape before it sprang, by keeping close to the link. And he'd finally know if Germaine was a friend of the league, or an enemy.

The left-hand door opened easily when he turned the burnished lever. He passed through a narrow passageway, illuminated by rosy reflections of light on the metal walls, and came out onto a large, rectangular forum walled by painted stone columns. At one end of the granite-floored courtyard was a gigantic stepped pyramid cased with white limestone that thrust straight up into the black sky like a glowing stairway to some distant star.

The feeling that he'd been to this place before nudged at his memory, but he was unable to locate the time or place. When he started to move closer to the huge pyramid, something slithered in the corner of his awareness.

Reflex pulled him back toward the door as he glanced at the source of the movement.

Three long, black cats were padding silently toward him, their sleek, sinewy bodies low against the reddish stone, yellow eyes fixed on his throat.

Instantly he bounded toward the passage, his consciousness groping for the link, but he found nothing except the drumming terror marking his scrambling efforts to escape.

His heaving gasps boomed against the metallic walls as he sprinted through the passage and staggered into the barren valley beyond. Senses dowsing wildly, he focused on a faintly glimmering light above him and began climbing the slippery mound of sand. He was unable to hear the cats behind him, but could smell their ravenous hunger as he crawled desperately toward the light, driven past exhaustion by roaring fear.

When he neared the lip of the hill, a soft sound turned his head, and he saw the largest of the cats coiled at his feet, about to spring. He threw up one arm to protect his throat as the furry black beast hurtled toward him, fangs exposed in a silent scream of rage.

Spiked shocks of pain ripped across his awareness, shredding his link with the light and plummeting him into icy darkness....

Orient was roused by Sybelle's sobs.

She was sitting a short distance away, within the protective circle, eyes shut and tears furrowing blue streaks down her trembling cheeks.

Still not strong enough to stand, Orient crawled to her and cupped her face in his hands.

The warm boundary of the circle seemed to be flooded with positive energy that poured into his parched nerves. Orient let the vibrations flow through him, into Sybelle's body, as he massaged her neck and temples. In a few moments the sobbing subsided, and she opened her eyes.

"Owen, darling, you're all right," she croaked. "Thank heavens. I kept calling you, but you couldn't hear. I was trying to warn you. Some awful animal was following you."

"It's all right. You found me. I'm back safe and sound," he replied. "How about you? Do you think you can stand, or shall I get Sordi to help?"

She shook her head.

"If you just give me a few minutes, I'm sure I'll be strong enough to go upstairs and have a brandy. What was... ?" Her eyes widened, and her chubby features spread out in horror.

"Owen, your arm," she hissed.

He looked down and saw that his shirt was drenched with blood. Using the knife he'd left on the altar table, he cut away the sleeve and discovered that his skin was raked with long red gashes from shoulder to wrist. As if clawed by a large cat.

Chapter 19

Sordi placed a last strip of tape on Orient's arm, then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"That should hold," he grunted. "How's it feel?"

Orient flexed his elbow. "Pretty good. How's your other patient doing?"

"Oh, don't worry about me, dear." Sybelle smiled, lifting her glass. "This forty-year-old brandy Sordi so brilliantly prescribed was exactly what I needed."

"Must have been quite an adventure," Memphis commented. "Anyone care to give me a hint?"

"Owen can do that better than I, certainly. All I sensed were some distorted images and a terrible feeling of danger." Sybelle set her glass down, glaring at Orient. "You never did tell me where you learned to travel on the astral. Hardly a scientific enterprise."

"You're right, scientific evidence for the existence of the astral plane is negligible," he admitted. "But lately I've been researching what relationship, if any, the astral might have with the recently discovered 'black holes' in space."

Sybelle remained unconvinced. "The astral is a spiritual plane, isn't it? And how did you learn to use it? I thought only advanced adepts could reach it."

Cornered, Orient was forced to lie.

"I discovered it by accident during the course of some telepathic sessions a few years ago."

"Is that when you built an altarroom?" she countered sweetly. "Really, Owen, you're too devious at times."

Memphis came to his rescue. "You still haven't told us what happened on that astral whatever-it-is."

"I did manage to find out where Christian went, I think. But in the process I was scratched up by one of his special pets, psychic emanations guarding the location. Fortunately, Sybelle disobeyed instructions and guided me out of there."

"You did find out, then," Sybelle exclaimed. "Tell us where, for heaven's sake."

"It was a stepped pyramid," Orient began. "And it may -- "

"Stepped pyramid?" Sordi blurted. "Like the ones in Mexico, you mean?"

"This one was different. Of course, the astral image I saw didn't belong to this time segment. It was new, and perfect in every detail. But I think I've seen what's left of it. It's located outside of Cairo."

"The Great Pyramid at Giza? That isn't a stepped pyramid," Sordi protested.

"Not the Great Pyramid. The first pyramid. The one at Saqqara, a few miles from Giza."

"But, Owen, darling, Cairo, it's impossible." Sybelle moaned.

"Could be I'm mistaken. But I've been to the ruins, some years ago, and studied reconstructed scale models of what it must have looked like. It was almost exactly -- "

"It isn't that Sybelle thinks you're mistaken," Memphis explained softly. "But maybe you should brush up on the world news. You can't go to Cairo, because Egypt happens to be at war with Israel. All ports are closed."

Orient took a hand-wrapped cigarette from his case and lit it, as the brief exultation launched by locating Christian's destination crashed against his frustration.

"Then how could Orgaz have gone to Cairo?" Sordi demanded.

"Christian seems to have arranged things well in advance up till now." Orient sighed, eyes following the blue trail of smoke from the tip of his cigarette.

"There's been some talk about a truce in the papers," Memphis put in hopefully. "Do you know any embassy people?"

Orient checked his watch.

"Too late to call any embassy now, but I have an old friend who might be able to help." He went to the roll-top desk in the library area and called his lawyer, ex-Senator Andy Jacobs.

"Well, what's goin', Owen?" Andy croaked like a triumphant bullfrog when he heard Orient's voice.

"That's just it, Senator, I'd like to be goin', but I can't. To Cairo, that is. Do you know anyone who can help?"

"What the hell do you want to go to Cairo for? There's a war on, boy."

"I know, Andy, that's why I need some help. Is there any way to get into Egypt these days? Some diplomatic channel or something?"

"I might be able to arrange a diplomatic visa, but it'll take time. Say, a month."

"I don't have a month. I need something this week."

"That's the trouble with youth, Owen, always in a rush. You haven't visited with me in a month. Let's take in a basketball game tomorrow night and talk it over."

"Sorry, Senator, but it's more important that I get to Cairo right away."

"Well, go ahead," Andy grumbled. "If you can, that is. Tell you somebody that might know. Runs the Egyptian tourist office here in town. He's connected to all the consuls, and he owes me a favor. I'll give you his phone number. It's the best I can do."

When Orient called the number, he found that Andy's influence wasn't enough to get him a passage to Cairo. The knowledge seemed to sap his physical energy dry.

"That's it," he announced when he hung up. "Nothing from the States at all. The airport's been closed for three weeks and may not reopen for months. The best advice the Egyptian tourist official could give me was to go to Rome and wait. If there's a lull in the fighting, there'll be some flights from there. But he couldn't say when that would happen."

"Well, it's better than nothing," Sybelle consoled. "Are we going to Rome? You've got to give me time to pack."

He shook his head. "Not yet. Maybe in a week or so."

"That's probably best," Sordi agreed. "No sense getting involved in a war."

Memphis came to his side.

"Feeling all right?" she asked softly. "You look very pale."

Her warm caress seemed to ease his throbbing headache, but the void in his emotions remained unfilled.

"I'm fine," he murmured. "Just a little tired."

Sybelle checked herself in the mirror, patting her crown of hennaed hair in place.

"Sordi, darling," she cooed. "Why don't you take me home, so Owen and Memphis can be alone."

To Orient's surprise, he felt more pleased than embarrassed by her remark.

"And about time, too." Memphis laughed. "You've had him all day. Give another girl a chance."

"Take him, my dear, with all my sympathy," Sybelle clucked. "And my dubious compliments. He's exasperating, but perhaps he's worth the trouble."

She turned and regarded Sordi with the ardor of a robin about to feast on an earthworm. "Are you ready?"

"At your service." Sordi's smile hovered between anticipation and self-restraint as he helped her on with her fur.

After they'd left, Memphis sat on the edge of Orient's chair massaging his neck with her warm fingers, while he sifted through the rubble of his thoughts for some solution.

She leaned close to his ear. "Does your arm feel better?"

He lifted it tentatively. "No pain at all."

"You put yourself in terrible danger, didn't you?"

Receiving no answer, she went on. "I've been nervous all day. It's awful just waiting, without knowing anything."

"I should have called this afternoon."

Her long hair fell over his face like a black satin curtain as her lips brushed his. Then she pulled away, eyes dark and hazy.

"Promise you won't go anywhere without me again," she said hesitantly. "I want to be with you."

He avoided her soft, searching eyes. "It's too dangerous."

"Please, Owen, promise me." She took his face in her hands. "Don't leave me alone like that again, not knowing what happened to you."

He took a deep breath, unable to lie to her.

"If I decide to go, I can't take anyone with me," he said slowly. "But right now it doesn't matter. Cairo airport is closed."

"But not Rome airport," she persisted.

He looked away. "If I decide to go to Rome, I'll tell you."

A small smile shadowed the ivory angles of her face, making her seem like a beautiful but disillusioned child.

"You're not really promising anything, are you?"

He didn't answer.

She kissed him again, then stood up.

"Well, at least you're honest. Even if it hurts."

He reached out, and she rushed back to his arms, her voice a jet of heat against his ear.

"Owen, darling, can't you see you need me?" she muttered fiercely.

He held her close for a long time, unwilling to give up the soft reassurance of her flesh, but unable to find something to give in return. Impotence fed his frustration, until it swelled into an obsession to find Orgaz and burst the chain of uncertainty. Perhaps then he'd be able to stop and mine his resources for some untarnished piece of soul he could offer a friend.

Later, alone in his bedroom, Orient booked a seat on the morning flight to Rome and packed a bag, before finally submitting to exhaustion and collapsing into a deeply troubled pocket of sleep.

Chapter 20

In the morning, still besieged by clamoring factions of thought, Orient left a note for Sordi, slipped out of the house, and took a cab to the airport.

During the drive he sat huddled near the window, attempting to reach some calm patch of awareness where meditation could take root undisturbed.

The words of Master Ku kept looping around his concentration, replaying their variations of meaning like a magnetic tape that altered pitch with each turn.

"The minutest choice of each master creates counter-forces which ripple through all existence, affecting the equilibrium of every limb of the league. The slightest breath sends echoes to the farthest plane. We can only hope to illuminate the way, for existence has its own momentum, which cannot be halted, but merely swayed.

"You must go alone, young wanderer, for this is your fate. And your choice will affect mine, and eventually mark the path of the universe itself. Choose wisely, for your decision will guide us all through the uncharted void..."

Orient emerged from his meditation with little confidence for the fate of existence. He'd failed his first test by allowing himself to be lured into a trap by Germaine. Still, now he was sure of the alliance of Count Germaine's tantric lodge with the forces of the Left Hand Path. His evil influence had corrupted Lily, and extended to the trinity of the Broken Cross.

As he flexed his bandaged arm, Orient wondered if the price for that knowledge had been too great for his bankrupt abilities. One requirement of the transaction was already nibbling at his will; he'd have to compete against the power of the trinity alone.

The soft, warm imprint of Memphis on his memory made his isolation more acute, and he shifted his attention to the pastel blurs of clapboard and concrete rushing past the window.

He arrived early enough to buy a ticket, weigh in, have his passport checked, and take care of some unfinished matters, including breakfast.

After eating, he purchased a stack of traveler's checks, then hunted for an empty phone booth. Something was prodding him to keep his promise to Memphis intact. He'd tell her he was going. Perhaps hearing her voice would carve some familiar sign on his mind's alien terrain.

He dialed four times without getting an answer.

Ignoring the woman pacing impatiently outside the glass door, Orient tried twice more, as if by sheer repetition he could breach the electronic bonds and make one last connection to himself.

The woman finally opened the door. "Something wrong with your dime?"

Her low, almost shy voice swiveled Orient's head.

The white angora sweater belted tightly around her narrow waist was a shade lighter than her smooth ivory skin. Shining hair cascaded like black water over her shoulders as she bent closer. She was smiling, but the violet shadows in her eyes betrayed her uncertainty.

"I knew you'd leave right away," Memphis said softly, "so I decided to go with you."

He shook his head emphatically. "You can't help me. Go home."

The smile faded, and a determined cleft formed in the exquisite tip of her chin.

"I bought my own ticket, have my own passport, and I'm going to Rome. I'll see you on the plane." She turned and hurried away before he could protest.

During the long hours of the flight, Memphis managed to disarm most of his objections patiently and rationally.

"All I want to do is help. Even if I'm just there to make sure you get back from wherever you're going. I guarantee you'll be happy I came along. You can use my help in so many ways, Owen."

"We'll see," he grunted, knowing she was right. Just the simple fact of her nearness was enough to hold the wandering fragments of his confidence together. But it wasn't until they were standing together in Rome's Fiumicino airport, waiting for their bags to appear on the conveyor, that he was completely convinced.

"Where are you staying, anyway?" Memphis asked casually.

"Hadn't thought about it. First thing is to contact the Egyptian embassy."

"Well, I just happen to have booked two rooms at a charming little hotel I know. Separate rooms, mind you. As I said, I won't impose. You have my word on that. I just want to make sure you're safe."

When he hesitated, she took his hand. "Is it a deal, Owen?"

Her touch seemed to span the chasm dividing his emotions, and he smiled. "Only if you include breakfast."

She drew a deep sigh of relief. "Whatever you need will be there," she whispered. Memphis attended to the details of checking into the hotel, while Orient called the embassy. He was referred to the official Egyptian tourist liaison, who regretfully informed him there'd been no word on reopening the airports, despite a pause in the fighting.

Orient checked again that evening, but the answer was the same. The next day the situation remained unchanged. He avidly read all the newspapers for some hint of a truce in the Arab-Israeli war, but the news only added to his frustration. Memphis tried to divert him with tourism and window shopping, but the growing obsession to reach Christian and Lily consumed his ability to respond.

On the morning of the third day he decided to go to the embassy in person. He returned a few hours later carrying a bundle of fresh newspapers under his arm, and an increased conviction of his own futility.

"No flights, huh?" Memphis guessed.

He dropped into a chair and began scanning the headlines.

"They told me there were truce negotiations, but it was still too early. Perhaps in a week."

Seeing his despondent expression, Memphis tactfully left him alone for the rest of the afternoon. That evening, however, she came to his room dressed in a glittering purple sheath, her bare shoulders shawled in black fur. Her delicate features were shaded by a shy smile.

"Don't you think it's time for you to break down and take me someplace nice for dinner? After all, this is Rome."

Orient's reluctance was outflanked by her sheer loveliness. The soft metallic fabric of her dress floated over liquid curves, competing vainly for attention against her skin's creamy sheen. But most captivating were the calm indigo depths of her eyes. Their surface reflected the bottomless reservoirs of strength, nourishing his will to continue.

He jumped to his feet and bowed gravely. "Your faithful and admiring servant, ma'am. Just give me ten minutes to find a tie."

Memphis opened her silver purse.

"Take five and wear this." She knotted a long, emerald silk scarf around his neck. "Ties are for banks. This is a special occasion."

"Have I mentioned that I'm glad you came?" he asked softly.

"I predict you'll be very happy you said that," she murmured, guiding his mouth to hers.

They went to Toto's, near Piazza di Spagna, for a long meal of gnocchi, broiled trout, salad, and wine. After dinner Memphis asked Orient to order spumante.

"To Bengasi," she toasted when the sparkling wine arrived. Orient raised his glass.

"He a friend of yours?"

"Not he, it, and it's a friend of yours."

"I don't follow."

Memphis smiled down at the bottom of her empty glass.

"I got an idea today. It occurred to me that the news you've been devouring had to come from somewhere."

"Reporters, you mean."

"Exactly, and so by going to a few newspaper offices and exerting my feminine leverage, I managed to pry loose an interesting fact."

"Which is?"

"Which is that the correspondents in the Middle East reached Cairo by a roundabout but still available route."

"How?" he blurted excitedly. "How soon can I get there?"

She refilled her glass and took a sip of wine. "I won't tell you unless you agree to take me with you."

It took him less than a second to decide. "What do we have to do?"

She looked up and smiled.

"We fly to Bengasi, in Libya, then take General Rommel's old desert route to the Egyptian border by car. There's a plane leaving with a flock of newsmen in the morning. I managed to get us two seats. So drink up, we have only a few hours of luxury left to enjoy."

As usual, her appraisal was accurate.

After a three-hour flight and a four-hour wait in the airport terminal while all credentials were scrupulously checked by scowling Libyan soldiers, Orient and Memphis were let through, only to find that every taxi had been commandeered by the newsmen, and there was nothing left for them except an expanse of yellow desert.

"I guess we have to wait for a while." Memphis sighed, perching on her suitcase. "We'll get something sooner or later."

Orient was too impatient to remain passive. Nervous energy coiled around his thoughts like a hot wire, amplifying his desperation. There were only four days left before the full moon. He decided to have a talk with some of the airport officials.

It took a lengthy bargaining session in Arabic, and the dispersal of a good chunk of Orient's cash, but in the end a battered Mercedes diesel sedan, driven by what looked to be a hundred-year-old man, pulled up in front of the terminal.

The trek across the desert was a thirty-hour gauntlet of stifling heat, bitter cold, and bouncing jolts that threatened to shatter the vehicle's rusted frame, as it swayed past sunset and sunrise on the monotonously hostile landscape.

Every few hours the car would be stopped by a military roadblock, and the driver busied himself with minor repairs while Memphis and Orient answered questions. Each time, they claimed to be journalists assigned to Cairo, and were let through.

They were met at the Egyptian border by soldiers with drawn automatic pistols, and all three given a complete body search before their documents were returned and they were grudgingly allowed to proceed.

Through the entire trip Memphis remained cheerful and uncomplaining, even though she wasn't equipped for the sudden changes in temperature and discovered that her Dutch passport wasn't prized by the Arab authorities.

When they reached the city at four in the morning, it was completely cloaked in darkness. There was only an occasional woodfire in an empty square, and their own dim headlights, to guide their passage through the deserted, tree-lined avenues.

From time to time white-robed figures on bicycles bobbed past the windows like rickety apparitions. As they neared the center, the car's lamps briefly illuminated a worn and unconvincing "Welcome to Cairo" sign, before plunging into a looming maze of shadow and silence.

Orient had overheard some newsmen on the plane mention that the Nile Hilton was headquarters for most of the press, so he told the driver to go to Shepheard's, since it was imperative that he attracted as little attention as possible. Now that he was inside Egypt, it was probably wiser to drop the pose of journalist and try to pass himself off as an archaeologist. With his knowledge of the language and culture, he might be able to avoid involvement with the political situation.

The windows at Shepheard's Hotel were painted over and taped, and piled sandbags stood in neatly ominous rows at each side of the entrance.

As soon as the car pulled up, two men in gold-brocade harem suits shuffled over, took their luggage, and ushered them politely but quickly inside.

Orient and Memphis took adjoining rooms, and in a short time were sharing a large breakfast.

"I'll never insist on going anywhere with you again," Memphis groaned over her second cup of mint tea. "My neck severed relations with my spine about ten hours ago. How do you feel?"

"Relieved, but still tense."

"Think you can find them, now that you're here?"

He shrugged. "Made it this far, with your help."

"And when you do?"

He looked away without answering. It was a question he'd been avoiding since leaving New York.

Chapter 21

Orient was awakened by the reassuring din of human activity, and from his terrace saw that Cairo had been returned to life by the healing fires of the sun.

Knots of pedestrians strolled the promenade lining the muddy curves of the Nile, while endless ribbons of traffic rolled across the low bridges seaming its banks. A pair of dhows, billowy sails bending like twin bows under the weight of the breeze, arched gracefully over the speckled water. In the distance, he could make out the gloomy outlines of the pyramids, their hazy blue shapes partially obscured by a glossy hotel decorating the opposite bank of the wide river.

He stepped inside and took a long shower, trying to dissolve the aching souvenirs of the trip across the desert, his brain still careening through numb wastelands of thought. He was exhausted, and the journey had just begun. There were only three short days to find Orgaz in a city of six million.

For the next weary hour he checked the local phone book and all the hotels without success. Deciding finally that he needed a long walk, Orient went down to the desk to leave word for Memphis.

"Going out? I'll arrange for your guide," the clerk said smoothly, lifting his arm and snapping his fingers.

A tall, bullet-headed man wearing a suit that had become too small for his hulking girth appeared at Orient's side.

"This is Mr. Awwaz. Our number-one guide."

"I don't need a guide today," Orient explained patiently. "I just want to take a look at the city."

The clerk smiled, fingering his sparse moustache. "This is a war zone, sir. All tourists must have a guide."

For the rest of the morning Orient raged in silence before Mr. Awwaz' tirade of facts as their honking taxi threaded its way through a mass of trucks, buses, cars, and people.

Cairo sprawled across both banks of the Nile like an aged but still self-indulgent courtesan amid the gaudy remnants of her vanity. Venerable mosques raised proud spires above the clumsily drab apartment buildings lining the wide, dusty avenues. Everything seemed used up and patched together, from the jammed buses and groaning military trucks, to the faded designs painted on the wooden handcarts.

As the tour continued, Orient became increasingly aware of one certain impediment to his future movements. Everywhere there were boys in striped pajamas or gray cadet uniforms, young soldiers in khaki, old men in flowing galabias, and women in traditional black robes. But there were no foreigners among them. Unless he disguised himself somehow, there'd be no way of moving about the city unobserved.

When he returned to the hotel, he found Memphis waiting in the lounge.

"Any luck?" she asked cheerily.

"Just bad. Everyone must have an official guide."

She made a face. "I know. I tried to take a stroll, but the management became very upset."

"That complicates things."

"I'm sure that if we insist, they can't really stop us from going out alone."

"Question is, where? It'll take weeks to cover the entire city. And strangers asking questions will arouse heavy suspicion."

"So we just play tourist, is that it?"

"Maybe not." Orient smiled. "Let's have a drink before lunch."

He quickly escorted her past the glass doors and into a cab before the clerk could protest, then told the driver to take them to the Nile Hilton. Along the way he explained what he had in mind to Memphis.

The Hilton was only a few blocks away, but worlds removed from the deserted gentility of Shepheard's. The lavish chrome-and-glass decor of the lobby complemented the glossy well-being of its occupants, giving it a lushly impersonal atmosphere. It could have been the interior of a hotel in Paris or Miami Beach.

The plush bar on the second floor intensified the impression of being in some timelessly plastic marketplace. Through the dim amber lights and heavy smoke Orient saw that the room was occupied by men of every allegiance. Egyptian air-force officers, soldiers wearing the blue beret of UN observers, and troops of pin-striped civilians who could have been speculators, swindlers, or diplomats, were all gathered to haggle over their piece of the war.

Reassured that they'd come to the right place, Orient guided Memphis to two low armchairs at the bar. As he sipped his drink, he eavesdropped on snatches of conversation coming from a table of newsmen behind him.

Their talk was sprinkled with complaints about the censorship, technical comparisons of weaponry used from Vietnam to the Sinai, and sharp criticism of the quality of the food.

A short time later the newsmen decided to go to lunch, except for one bearded man, who preferred to keep drinking.

"Now's your chance," Memphis prodded. "Or do you want me to ask him?"

Orient shook his head, got to his feet, and approached the table.

"Excuse me," he said uneasily, dodging a waiter. "I heard you speaking American. Do you mind answering some questions about the local ground rules?"

The bearded man regarded him thoughtfully for a moment.

"Sit down," he grunted. "After six weeks in this place, I'll talk to anybody."

After casual introductions, the bearded man, whose name was Harry, asked the first question. "What the hell are you guys doing over here? War's almost over. They called a formal cease-fire today. Hasn't been any real news for a week."

"Oh, we're not reporters," Memphis explained, giving him the story they'd arranged in the cab. "Owen's an archaeologist. He's here to do some research on the pyramids."

Harry scowled skeptically. "Anything in particular?"

"Just a pet theory that the pyramids may have been built with extraterrestrial help," Orient told him.

Harry's mood seemed to brighten.

"UFO stuff, huh? That's something I'm interested in myself. You know, I've been cooped up in this damned place for the last six weeks. But I've managed to get out to the pyramids a few times."

"By yourself?" Memphis asked. "Our hotel doesn't encourage unescorted tours."

"Oh, they're touchy here," Harry agreed. "But it's not too bad when you get used to it. After a while you find out where you can go, and where you can't. There's just a few sections off limits. Especially out near the airport."

Memphis glanced at Orient. "You see, we're also here trying to find someone. And we don't know where she is."

"She? You mean there's another lady around this zoo? I just came from West Africa, where the woman situation was worse than here, and it's bad here."

"We're looking for my... ex-wife," Orient said. "I'm trying to get her to agree to a divorce."

Harry studied the bottom of his glass, smiling ruefully. "As a matter of fact, I've just been through the same routine myself. Any kids?"

"No children." Memphis sighed. "But it seems impossible to find anyone right now."

Harry slowly stroked his black beard. "I'm a cameraman, so I don't get out much on my own. We have to wait here until we get word that something's happening. You should talk to some of the correspondents. They've got some angles."

He half-stood, peered through the room, then waved to someone at a crowded table.

"Hey, Pat," he called out. "Over here."

A studious-looking man in a black bush shirt came over to join them.

He conferred with him in a low voice.

Pat smiled understandingly and looked up. "Looking for your wife, huh?"

Orient nodded.

"Know of anyway I can trace her?"

He studied his fingernails. "Going to the police can get messy. How long have you been in town?"

"Just a few hours," Memphis said softly.

He looked at her and grinned in honest delight. "Why don't you three join us for lunch? We've already uncovered a good restaurant, so there's no reason why we shouldn't attempt the impossible again."

Located on a small island in the Nile, directly across from the pyramids, the Seahorse was quiet and comfortably pastoral. They ate grilled fish served on skewers, and watched the boats sailing the river, and despite his impatience, Orient began to relax in the tranquil, leafy surroundings of the outdoor restaurant.

He was also reassured by the casual but genuine camaraderie of the correspondents around the table. Though they risked their lives daily amid the madness of war and disaster, and were strangers wherever they went, all of them maintained a wry sanity that was part fatalism and part fatigue at the stupidity they encountered in the world.

"In Bangladesh they sent those poor bastards out without any training," Pat snorted, refilling his glass. "Never even told them to roll over on their stomachs if they got wounded."

"Why should they roll over on their stomachs?" Memphis ventured.

"Birds. I've seen guys with relatively minor wounds blinded by vultures. They always go for the eyes first."

Memphis winced. "Some nifty job you men have."

"I always count on the fact that I will forget," Pat told her gently.

"You hotshots took us out here to do the impossible, remember?" Harry reminded loudly. "These good folks didn't take the goddamn Bengasi express to listen to your memoirs."

"Finding your lost wife," Pat mused, looking from Orient to Memphis, "won't be easy. They think reporters and Americans are spies these days. All the hotel rooms are bugged, and the guides all work for the security police."

He smiled, as if pleased by the idea.

"Not all," a young Canadian reporter said. "There are some who free-lance. Who was the guy who got us those permits?"

Pat grinned triumphantly.

"Rashid. Lost wives aren't quite his line, but he's fixed everything else so far. Usually hangs out at the Night and Day Cafe at the Semiramis, just across from you. Take lots of money; he's got a big family to support."

After lunch Orient and Memphis went directly to the cafe and asked for Rashid.

The waiter pointed to a dark man wearing sunglasses sitting alone near the window, reading a newspaper.

"Mr. Rashid?" Orient asked.

The man smiled at Memphis and folded his newspaper. "Yes?"

"Some friends suggested you might be able to help us."

Rashid's smile widened.

"Welcome. Please sit down." He signaled the waiter.

"Will you have some tea with me?" Memphis smiled. "Mint tea. I love it."

Rashid lifted his sunglasses and regarded her fondly, his plump, lineless face equally cherubic and lascivious. When he turned, Orient saw a calculating glint illuminate his black agate eyes.

"Your friends, are they journalists?"

"Yes, but we're not journalists. I'm an archaeologist."

"Then you'll need a first-class guide. A university professor," Rashid said smoothly. "I understand."

"Not quite. You see, I'm trying to find someone. An English girl." The waiter arrived with the tea, and Rashid waited until he'd served and left the table before answering.

"This girl, what is she to you?"

"My wife. She's with a man called Baron Orgaz."

Rashid smiled at Memphis. "We Muslims can have four wives, but we don't allow them to go with other men."

"Then you can understand why the doctor must find her," she said sweetly. "He wants a divorce."

"So he can marry you?"

She hesitated, ivory fingers twirling the ends of her straight black hair. "If Allah wishes."

Rashid grunted, replaced his sunglasses, then reached into his jacket for a notebook and pen.

"Tell me about this girl. What is her name? What does she look like?" After jotting down the details Orient gave him concerning Lily and Orgaz, he looked up.

"I have a large family," he explained happily. "I will call them now and ask them to look for these people. Tomorrow morning I will send my cousin Alex to your hotel. He will take you to the pyramids, like ordinary tourists. When you come back, I will be waiting for you."

"We don't have much time," Orient protested.

Rashid shook his head regretfully.

"There's the curfew, and the blackout. Even without them, Cairo is too large. But don't worry. I have relatives in every quarter. Two of my uncles and four of their sons are taxi-men. And one of my own sons is a police officer. If this Lady Lilith Sativa and Baron Orgaz are here, they will be found soon."

He smiled. "Of course, there will be great expenses. My cousin's fee alone is twenty pounds Egyptian. And then the others."

Orient counted out five ten-pound notes. "There'll be more if you succeed."

Rashid's thick fingers swept up the bills and deposited them inside his pinstripe jacket, along with the notebook.

"My cousin Alex will call for you at nine. Please be prompt."

Still feeling the bruises from their long car trip across the desert, Orient and Memphis retired early, after a light dinner. But even though physically spent, Orient's mind refused to sleep. He went over every detail of the events following the seance for Arnold Weber, rummaging for something he might have overlooked.

Since that night his house had been wrecked, Lily had left him, his contact had been killed, Sordi possessed, and at least one attempt made on his own life. He'd used up a great deal of precious time without discovering the true nature of the murderous power stalking him. And now, with less than forty-eight hours remaining before the rise of the moon, he was in a foreign war zone, forced to depend on a man he didn't trust. Rashid.

The plump Egyptian could be a police agent, conveniently boxing his movements, or more likely, a con man who saw a way to hustle some easy money. And still, the basic question taunted his misgivings. Even if Rashid found them, what could he do?

He berated himself for not having learned more about the tantric rite. The key could be there. Perhaps the L brand was a tantric sign of power. Oliver had admitted that all the victims were homosexuals. And like the sadistic ritual sacrifices, Lily's Kundalini rite had undeniable sexual roots.

Another possibility stung his awareness. Perhaps the L brand stood for "Lilith."

Though he tried to diminish its importance, the connection festered in his restless thoughts for the rest of the night.

Chapter 22

When Orient came down to the hotel lounge, Memphis had already finished breakfast.

She looked completely recovered from the effects of their trip across the desert. The dark circles bruising the delicate ivory skin around her eyes were gone, and her radiant smile lightened Orient's mood immediately.

She kissed him enthusiastically as he sat down.

"There are no messages at the desk, but it's not nine yet. Have some breakfast."

Orient glanced up to signal the waiter and saw a tall man in a black robe approaching the table.

"Are you the doctor who wishes to see the pyramids?" the man asked, touching two fingers to his white turban.

Orient nodded. "You're Rashid's cousin?"

"Alex Badawy at your service."

"And very prompt service, too," Memphis congratulated.

Alex smiled proudly. "Welcome. There is a taxi waiting."

Despite his eagerness, Alex was a disappointment. He was unable to answer any questions beyond those concerning tourist attractions, and his knowledge of English was equally limited. Orient asked him about Rashid in Arabic, and was told that it was arranged for four that afternoon.

As the taxi crossed the El Gama bridge and began snaking through the crowded squares of Giza on the west bank of the Nile, Orient's anxieties mounted. It was taking too much time. Another seven hours lost, with no assurance that they'd be well spent. A passing convoy of trucks carrying armed troops in camouflage jackets reminded him that there was no other choice.

Memphis' presence helped soothe the grinding sense of hopelessness. She was captivated by the exotic spectacle in the streets, and full of exuberant questions when the taxi reached the dry, hilly ground at the site of the Great Pyramid.

"Pyramid of Cheops has two million, six hundred stones; each stone weigh from two to seventy tons," was all Alex was able to tell them. "Now you ride camel. And go inside pyramid."

Both Orient and Memphis firmly declined a ride on the balking animals being trotted up by their insistent owners, and made their way up the sandy hill on foot, surrounded by a vocal crowd of souvenir hawkers.

The Great Pyramid was slightly ravaged by time, tourism, and treasure seekers. Its gold cap piece stolen, and huge inner stones stripped bare of their gleaming white limestone facade, the giant structure continued its uncompromising watch over the desert sky, standing apart from the smaller pyramids behind, like some shabby but still elite sentinel.

"Five thousand years, and there it still is." Memphis sighed. "I've always been fascinated by the ancient Egyptians. They were great astrologers, you know. This pyramid is supposed to be perfectly aligned with true north."

"The people who built it were very special," Orient agreed. "And they knew much more than the location of true north. The distance between the earth and sun wasn't calculated by Western science until 1900. But before that, all anybody had to do to get that number was multiply the height of this Pyramid by one million."

"Is that true?"

Orient smiled.

"There's something even better that the tour guides never mention. An English scientist named Piazzi Smyth found that this pyramid rises from its base ten units of height for every nine it extends. He took ten to the ninth power and came up with the exact figure for the earth's orbit around the sun."

She shook her head. "Hard to believe. How could they know without instruments? And anyway, this was a tomb."

"So they say." He took her hand and helped her up the crude stairway leading to the entrance. "But no mummy was ever found here."

The entrance was located some forty feet above the base. At the top of the stairs a guide attached himself to them and impassively led the way inside.

They were forced to crouch down to negotiate a narrow passage down to the first landing, which was large enough for them to stand. From there some sunlight could still be seen filtering through the passage. The guide showed them a locked iron gate leading to the passage beneath the pyramid, then took them to a darkened interior passage.

They crawled up a long, uncomfortably confining tunnel before emerging onto a large landing lit by fluorescent lamps. Ahead of them was a steep, superbly constructed gallery leading up to another landing. But instead of climbing up the wide ramp, they were taken along a narrow passage beneath, into an empty room with an arched ceiling. "Queen's Chamber," the guide grunted.

"Then the queen was buried here," Memphis mused. "But where's her sarcophagus?"

"None found," Orient said. "In fact 'Queen's Chamber' is most likely a misnomer.

Women were never buried with the pharaohs. There's a miniature pyramid outside attributed to Cheops' wife. Could be this room had some special function."

"Any treasure found?"

"No record of it," Orient told her as they went back through the passage to the large landing. "But the explorers did report finding the walls of the Queen's chamber encrusted with salt."

In the large hall, the guide explained that the high-ceilinged, slant-walled ramp that ascended to the main chamber of the pyramid was called the Grand Gallery. Orient could see how the early explorers would have been profoundly impressed by the engineering of the steeply sloping passage. Each block of stone was precisely cut and artfully jointed creating a spectacular archway.

Memphis noticed the periodic notches cut into the low ledges along both walls, and stopped. "What were these for?"

"Some say they were for wooden rollers, used to haul the sarcophagus. There are others who think they're for special lamps," Orient said. "Curiously enough, the very first person who succeeded in entering here, Prince Al Mamum, wrote that he found no traces of smoke from torches in the gallery, leading certain people to believe that whoever built the pyramid had some other form of illumination besides fire."

"Well, they sure must have had good tools," Memphis sniffed. "These blocks are hard granite."

When they entered the King's Chamber, however, she seemed slightly let down.

"There's nothing here," she complained. "Just that worn-out sarcophagus."

The guide squatted down and lit a cigarette while they walked slowly around the barren rectangular room inspecting the nine flat stones in the ceiling. "There's another chamber above this one," Orient told her. "Discovered by a man called Davidson. But it was empty too."

He smiled and took her hand.

"Don't be too disappointed. This is all Al Mamum found after hacking his way through a whole series of granite plugs blocking the passages. And remember, this chamber is in the center, about fourteen stories high."

Memphis shivered and leaned against his arm. "Scary to be enclosed so well. Didn't Mamum find anything at all?"

"Just a roll of cloth covered with strange writing at the bottom of the empty sarcophagus." Orient took her over to the stone casket at the far end of the room. One corner had been worn away by souvenir hunters.

"I think I'm beginning to see what you mean," she whispered. "This place is too vast an accomplishment to be simply a tomb. But if it's not a burial vault, what is it for?"

Orient leaned against the wall and shook his head.

"Nobody really knows. They do know that it generates strange forms of energy. There've been a few discoveries along that line. A Frenchman named Bovis visited here and noticed some cats lying in a garbage can that had apparently wandered in and died. He also noticed that there was no sign of decay about them. When he examined the animals, he found them mummified.

"Bovis went home and made a scale wooden model of the pyramid, set it due north, and placed a freshly dead cat a third of the way up, just about where we are now. In a few days it dehydrated and mummified naturally.

"Then a Czech radio engineer pursued Bovis' findings and concluded that the peculiar shape of the pyramid, in conjunction with true north, caused an accumulation of cosmic rays."

"What happened to that project?"

"The only result was a patent that Drbal, the Czech engineer, took out on something called 'The Cheops Pyramid Razor Blade Sharpener'. He'd discovered that his razor blade stayed perpetually sharpened when placed in a pyramid container."

"That's all?" Memphis shook her head disbelievingly. "Maybe we're overlooking the obvious in our hurry to make bombs."

She glanced down at the crumbling sarcophagus.

"But you must admit that this thing is just about the right size for a human body. The pyramid could be a burial place, after all."

Orient ran a reflective hand over the dark surface of the worn granite. "Maybe. Most people think so. Still, there's another curious coincidence. This sarcophagus has the exact dimensions given in the Bible for the Arc of the Covenant."

They lingered in the chamber for a while, and when they returned down the great ramp and crawled out through the cramped passages into the brash sunlight, it struck Orient that he'd lost most of his tension in the dim interior. When they walked around the base of the pyramid, however, he saw the stepped ruins of Saqqara looming in the distance, and the anxieties swarmed back like hungry locusts.

"You know so much about this place, doctor," Memphis teased as Alex led them to the statue of the sphinx. "You must take this tour often."

"Just once before." He smiled. "Twenty years ago, when I was a student. Nothing's changed much, including the salesmanship."

But as he studied the agelessly reposed expression of the battered female features adorning the lion-haunched colossus, Orient knew that everything was different this time. Then Cairo had been smaller, and unpolluted by traffic. There'd been no war zones, and life was a simple combination of learning and love. Today he was a tired man looking for a peaceful place to die and be reborn.

"We go see alabaster mosque now," Alex called out. "Then go to Khan El Khalili market for perfume. I get you good price."

Orient took Memphis' hand and began walking back to the car.

"No market today, Alex," he said emphatically. "Now you take us over there." He stopped and pointed across the desert. "To the Saqqara pyramids."

Memphis seemed to sense his mood, and handled Alex's running spiel during the drive across the flat, irrigated section between Giza and Saqqara. Orient remained wrapped in grateful silence, staring out at the shadowy complex of ruins ahead.

When they reached the sand-rubbled site, the gleaming perfection of the colonnaded Heb Sed courtyard of his astral vision kept superimposing its image over the broken stone skeleton that remained of King Zoser's Pyramid.

The pit gates and entrance on the north face were closed, and after examining the rugged facade of the stepped structure, they were taken to a high, sandy knoll overlooking the desert, where the small Pyramid of Unis was located. The guide unlocked the gate and led them down a short passage to an underground chamber whose blue walls and ceilings were covered with hieroglyphic figures and painted over with bright, unfading colors. In one corner was a white granite sarcophagus.

"See," Memphis declared. "Another tomb."

Orient sat down on a protruding stone and examined the blue, gold, and red designs in the walls.

"Never found a body here, either. But these inscriptions are partial texts from the Book of the Dead. They're formulas to clear the way for the Ba spirit of the deceased."

"So it's a tomb, admit it."

"This one could very well be, but it's of a later period. The big one outside, the stepped pyramid supposedly built by Imhotep, is the first pyramid of them all, according to the experts, but no mummy was ever found inside. Even though Imhotep designed it, they say, as Zoser's tomb."

"What do you say?"

He ran his hand over the figures on the wall.

"The interesting thing is that there's no record of any writing or science before Imhotep's time. He was a mathematician, priest, teacher, doctor, and architect who brought an entire culture from mud-brick houses to advanced stellar mathematics and brain operations in about forty years."

"That sounds impossible. How could one man acquire all that skill from nowhere?" Her brows arched slightly over amused violet eyes. "I'm sure you have some thoughts about that one."

He shrugged.

"They've found certain Sumerian texts that claim Zoser's pyramid isn't six thousand, but sixty thousand years old. The last remnant of a race of gods who were destroyed in a mighty cataclysm long before the great flood."

"So Imhotep didn't build the first pyramid, after all."

"According to the ancient scholars, Imhotep deciphered three books of knowledge he found hidden in the stepped pyramid. He used what he learned to become a skilled healer, mathematician, and magician. His students became the priests of Egypt who would eventually build an empire. Imhotep's direct blood descendants conceived and constructed the Giza pyramid."

Orient leaned close to the wall to inspect a series of bird and sun figures.

"Unfortunately Imhotep was driven out by the jealous king, and took many of the inner secrets with him. Similar situations occur all through man's history. Leaders always seem to see progress in terms of warfare."

Memphis wrinkled her nose. "Politics. I suppose they never found Imhotep's tomb anywhere."

"Correct." He took her arm and led the way outside. "Matter of fact, they've never found a mummy in any of the pyramids."

Orient's nerves were fretful by the time the taxi crossed the low bridge across the Nile connecting Giza with the center of Cairo. Alex had insisted on stopping for lunch, and they were almost ten minutes late. He hoped Rashid wouldn't use it as an excuse for not showing up, and was relieved to see the plump Egyptian sitting at his usual window table.

"Welcome, doctor and beautiful lady," he greeted effusively. "Let us call for refreshment."

"Have you found them?" Orient blurted, unable to repress his concern.

"They have been located," Rashid assured, expression veiled by the thick sunglasses. "Please have some tea. Everything is arranged."

Orient took a deep breath, trying to slow the emotions skating across his thoughts. "When can I see them?"

Rashid lifted a languid arm for the waiter and turned to Memphis. "Did you enjoy your visit to our pyramids?"

Her smile was brief. "Very lovely."

Orient controlled his eagerness, understanding that Rashid was laying the foundation for a stiff fee.

"The man you seek is very important person," Rashid commented. "This baron has high friends in the government. He arrived some days ago by jet. With your wife. The English girl."

"When can I see them?" Orient repeated.

Rashid smiled expansively. "All that will take a little longer. They have already left Cairo, for Luxor."

Orient's hopes oozed away. He felt sure the smoothly reassuring Egyptian was angling for more money without delivering tangible results.

"All arrangements for you are made," Rashid was explaining. "My cousin Hussein is there. He is the boatman of the Horus II. You will find him tomorrow in front of the Winter Palace Hotel. He has been informed what to do. I have taken the liberty of reserving one seat on the evening plane. It departs in two hours. All this is done, and I ask only two hundred pounds Egyptian for my excellent service." He lifted his sunglasses and beamed at Memphis. "Are you pleased, beautiful lady?"

Orient's reaction teetered from despair to anger. "I'll need a week to get the money. I don't have that much with me."

"I've got the money," Memphis said softly. "But make that two seats. I don't think I'd like it here alone."

The tiny turboprop commuter plane took three hours to fly over the five hundred miles of red desert and green river separating Cairo and Luxor.

Immediately upon landing, all twenty-odd passengers were met by a polite but armed cordon of soldiers who ushered them inside the terminal. Before entering the low building, Orient saw that the airport was a military base. The moon was high, and he could make out the poised silhouettes of jet fighters and helicopters across the field.

In contrast to the sleek war machines on the desert, Luxor was a primitive cluster of mud huts tucked behind a horde of tourist hotels and souvenir shops squatting blandly at the edge of the Nile.

As advised by Rashid, they went to the Savoy and took adjoining bungalows in the courtyard to ensure freedom of movement.

After unpacking, Orient met Memphis in the hotel dining room.

"Think these rooms are bugged too?" she asked casually, pouring him some wine.

"You saw the soldiers at the airport. And the clerk told me the village is off-limits to tourists. Security here is probably tighter than Cairo."

"Rashid's cousin will be able to help us, I'm sure."

Orient sipped his wine, unable to share her optimism.

"Worried?"

"Suppose you were Rashid," he replied. "And two foreign tourists show up in the middle of a war trying to find a lost wife. You know that tourists aren't free to move on their own, and are desperate. At that point you also know you can collect a fee, even if you have no intention of looking for a lost wife."

Her eyes narrowed. "You think Rashid is taking us for an expensive tour."

"Unfortunately, I just can't get that tune out of my head."

"Can't we do something?"

"We can wait until morning." He sighed. "And hope Rashid is honest."

In the morning they met in the courtyard and went out through the gardens to the single tree-shaded street hugging the river bank. Brilliant sunlight poured across the water, drenching the distant plateaus of the Valley of the Kings with liquid gold.

"So lovely," Memphis said in hushed tones.

The brief lull was broken by a happily raucous chorus of coachmen wearing brightly dyed galabias, offering the services of their horse-drawn cabs.

"We must be the only tourists they've seen this season," Orient commented as they smiled and waved their way through the tangle to the other side of the street. They strolled past a complex of giant temple ruins to the modern mall of the Winter Palace, then walked slowly along the steep river bank inspecting the rows of single-masted dhows rocking listlessly below. Ignoring the yelling offers of the boatmen, Orient scanned the bright lettering on their boats. He spotted the name Horus II beneath a large eye on the prow of a battered craft and hurried down the slope, Memphis just behind.

A short, broad-shouldered man whose expression was surprisingly innocent beneath the weathered lines digging into his face waded ashore to greet them. "Hussein?" Orient asked.

"Yes, doctor. My cousin call me to say you would come. Please make yourself comfortable on my boat."

"Did he tell you who I'm looking for?"

"Yes. Don't worry." Hussein pulled a boarding from the side of the boat. "Come, please. We take a sail. No charge."

Suppressing his impatience, Orient followed Memphis aboard and sat next to her on the cushioned seats as Hussein unfurled the patched, triangular sail and with a long pole pushed the boat away from the reeded bank into the current. A breeze puffed the sail's belly, and after fastening the lines, Hussein came back to the tiller.

"Much better." He smiled. "Just like ordinary tourists. Nobody hear, nobody see."

"Have you found the girl?"

Hussein shook his head sadly. "We know two men and an English girl arrived yesterday in a small plane, but we still are asking questions."

Orient dug his fist into his palm. "We have very little time, less than a day."

"Luxor is a little place. Strangers are quickly noticed," Hussein assured hastily. "Give me some hours. I take you back to shore, and you go to Karnak Temple. Maybe this afternoon we will know something about these people."

"When?"

The lines around the boatman's eyes deepened. "When we find them."

The cab ride back through town seemed too slow for Orient's frayed nerves. Turbaned tribesmen stared at them with bold curiosity, and clumps of black-robed women, curved clay jars balanced at an angle over their heads, floated along the palm-shaded roadside, but Orient was too preoccupied to respond to the rugged beauty of the upper Nile. He gripped the seat as if the weight of his impatience could speed the horse's clicking hooves along the quiet street.

Memphis took his wrist and squeezed. "Hey, loosen up. Won't help to let it eat you up this way. If Hussein turns out to be a fraud, we'll go right back to Cairo."

Orient sat back and smiled, unwilling to explain the need to find Lily before the full moon.

He did, however, take her advice, and used the leverage of his controlled breathing to separate emotion from thought. As they approached the plaza flanked by massive lines of ram-headed lions that led to the Karnak Temple, the oppressive tension began to ease.

Memphis' admiration for the towering stone columns, etched walls, and obelisks was infectious, and he joined her exploration of the temple compound with growing enthusiasm.

"What are your theories about this place?" she teased when they entered a recessed altar room at the end of three great telescoped halls.

"No theories this time. Its history was well recorded. Two thousand years before Christ, this sleepy town was the center of a vast empire that stretched over to Greece and Rome. They didn't build pyramids, but did retain the skills of mummification, building, astronomy, and as you see from the wall carvings, improved the arts of fresco and war."

"How about their tombs?"

"They were hidden underground, in the Valley of the Kings."

"Any mummies underneath the temple here?"

"This is the east bank of the Nile, where the sun rises. The tombs are always located on the west bank, where it sets. Everything in this civilization was based on sun worship. These are all temples dedicated to various forms of Ra, the sun god and life force. As time went on, the rituals performed here became fertility festivals."

He took her hand and led her away from the altar room to a small forest of columns.

"If you look up, you'll see what most discreet Egyptologists call 'closed-papyrus' columns. Look closely, and it's clear they have a more earthly significance."

"They look like phalluses," she said after a long pause. "And very large, too."

They wandered through the huge ruins of the temple complex until afternoon, and as the sun rose higher, Orient's small dam of calm collapsed under the pressure. He decided he couldn't wait any longer.

"Sorry your money's been wasted," he told Memphis. "But maybe we'd better go back to Cairo before we lose more time. The hotel can arrange a flight."

When they reached the gates, a carriage was waiting.

"This way, doctor," the coachman called.

When they mounted the cab, the driver squinted suspiciously.

"You Hussein doctor?"

Orient's heart began pounding rapidly. "Yes."

The driver flicked his whip, and the coach rumbled slowly forward.

Memphis leaned close to Orient. "I think he found them."

Orient nodded, his mind invaded by hundreds of conflicting possibilities. He broke silence when the cab passed the Savoy.

"Stop here," he called out. "Leave something in your room?" Memphis inquired.

"You. If Orgaz is here, I'll see him alone." He pressed a gentle finger over her protests. "You've helped me all this way, but you can't help me any more. Hussein will let you know if something happens."

Her eyes fell away from his face.

"Come back soon, my love." She stepped down to the street and watched the cab roll off toward the boats.

Hussein unfurled the sail and cast off as soon as Orient arrived.

"Where's your lady?" the boatman asked mildly.

"At the hotel waiting."

"Someone may think it's strange you coming alone." He shrugged. "Did you find them?"

Hussein smiled. "We'll be there very soon if wind stays strong."

The boat slid noiselessly over the sun-marbled river, but Orient's mind became a clamoring battlefield of half-formed plans. He concentrated on the smooth, speckled patterns in the water currents, and when Hussein called out, he was almost empty of the fear-driven anxiety.

"There it is, doctor. The marble house with big terrace, on the bank."

"You're sure Baron Orgaz is there?"

"And the English girl. That house was empty for long time. First built by King Farouk so he could watch sunset while he drank tea."

"When did they come?"

Hussein headed the craft toward the center of the river, away from the palm-shrouded mansion.

"Early yesterday."

"Turn around," Orient snapped. "I want to go to the house."

"Soldiers there now," the boatman grunted. "Wait until they go eat. First we go to banana island."

Orient found it difficult to endure the next few hours, even though Hussein assured him that it was important to act as normal tourists, and a sail to the verdant island covered with flowers and fruit was one of the highlights of Luxor.

The wind died as the sun dropped behind the red desert mountains, and it became chilly. As the boat slowly drifted downstream into the dusk, Orient hugged his shoulders and peered through the purple mists coming off the water, trying to spot the outlines of the terraced mansion. Then the boat drifted closer to the east bank, and he saw it, a squat, yellow stone structure set on a rock that extended into the river.

Hussein guided the boat to an inlet about fifty yards past the house, well covered by trees and vegetation.

"I can wait here. If someone comes, I pretend to fix my boat. There's a door on this side of house. Goes to kitchen. Big room is upstairs."

As Orient carefully clambered over the muddy terrain leading to the house, he intensified his breathing, trying to fuse reflex and tension to a single, clear function.

He stayed close to the edge of the water until he reached the large rock, then moved along its face to the wall and located the door. After a second's hesitation he slipped inside and began climbing the narrow stairs toward a slash of light above him.

When he reached the landing, he stood in the darkness listening for long moments before pushing the door open wider by an inch. Flattening himself against the wall, he peered through the crack and saw a large empty kitchen lit by a single overhead lamp.

On entering the room, his immediate impression was that the house was uninhabited, and he wondered if he were walking into some elaborate variation of Rashid's con game. He refocused his concentration, squeezing the possibility away, and began looking for another stairway.

He found it just outside the kitchen door at the far end of the room. Thankful that the steps were marble and wouldn't creak, he started up, body hugging the damp security of the wall and eyes fixed on the door above.

At the top of the landing he crouched down and gingerly crossed the carpet to the thick ebony door. When he pressed his ear against the cold wood, he heard the muffled sound of voices.

At first he couldn't distinguish what was being said, but in a few moments he picked up the unmistakably vibrant tone of Lily's voice. He straightened his body, took a long breath, and knocked.

Chapter 23

The sudden silence hollowed out by the sharp rap was deepened by his rasping breathing, then he heard the scrape of a bolt.

A sandy-haired youth opened the door, his cold clean-cut features sagging in disbelief.

A velvety mantle of calm settled over Orient's awareness when he recognized the boy who'd come for Lily the day she'd taken the snakeskin vest.

"May I come in?" he asked softly. "I'd like to speak to Christian."

"Is someone there, Henry?" Lily called out weakly. "Send them away."

Henry backed away from the doorway.

"It's your friend from New York," he said pleasantly, composure recovered.

"Well, you are intrepid, doctor," Orgaz congratulated, as Orient stepped inside. "Not even a war could sway you from visiting us."

He was sitting at the head of a long marble table beneath a high window, the lights of a candelabrum reflecting tiny links of silver flame in his blue eyes.

Lily was half-reclined on a sofa nearby, gleaming hair spread out over the dark fabric like copper tinsel. Her eyes were opened wide, but the chiseled features were wooden.

Christian smiled. "Do sit down, Owen. I'm sure you're tired."

Orient sat where he could watch both Christian and Lily. Henry casually circled until he was standing a few feet behind his chair.

"Tell me, now," Orgaz spoke quietly, inspecting well-manicured nails, "what brings you to see us?"

Orient stood up. "Mind telling your friend to stand somewhere else? He became nasty last time we met, and I don't like to tempt him."

"You're becoming too paranoid, Owen." Orgaz chuckled, beckoning Henry to the table.

"Hardly befitting a rare visit from an old friend." He glanced over at Lily. "You haven't said hello to Owen, dearest."

Lily lifted her head, face hardened in a golden mask of fury.

"Go away!" she whispered hoarsely. "We don't want you here."

Her intensity shredded Orient's calm, and the familiar tension constricted his belly like an outgrown belt.

"Please don't be dismayed," Christian soothed. "Lily's not herself. As you know, she has certain... psychological difficulties during the full phase of the moon."

Orient looked directly into the bleached, unblinking eyes.

"Getting ready for another sacrifice, Christian?"

"You've quite agitated yourself, Owen. What sort of sacrifice did you have in mind? A chicken? As in the days of Amon Re?"

"The most important thing is that it be branded with the letter L." Orient glanced at Lily. "Interesting initial."

"Perhaps it stands for 'loser'."

"Somehow I was sure you knew."

Christian spread his bloodless palms. "You find me at a loss. Sorry you came so far in vain."

Lily moaned and slowly pulled her knees to her chest, the thin gown falling away from her thighs.

"I'm afraid your riddle has disturbed my fiancee." An affectionate smile curled his pale lips. "But I'm sure you understand the delicate nature of her condition."

Eyes shut tight, her body shifted position as if being twisted by slow spasms of pain.

Orient moved toward the couch. "Mind if I examine her?" Henry half-rose in his chair, watching Orgaz.

Christian placidly waved him down.

"As you wish, doctor. But since you don't have your little black bag, feel free to ask for any special instruments you require."

He crouched over Lily's writhing body and took her wrist between his fingertips. The blood was pumping rapidly under cool skin, oily with perspiration. He pressed tighter, letting the sweat-soaked orbit of energy draw his senses.

Liquid shocks squirted through his nerves, spattering the base of his brain with pictures. Erotic images of Lily in fragmented postures bubbled across his consciousness: Lily nude on satin cushions being massaged by a woman wearing black leather gloves; being brutally raped in a stable by a group of soldiers; on a beach, carefully initiating a young girl to love; in a car, kneeling before a schoolboy.... The scenes tumbled into a turmoil of emotion as he understood that she wasn't suffering pain but writhing with spasms of pleasure.

"Can you prescribe something, doctor?"

He released Lily's wrist and looked up into the unblinking eyes. "Just a change of religion."

"Are you a priest as well as telepath?"

"There seem to be enough priests here already. Priests of the trinity who worship the crystal skull of Schamballah."

Henry's sharp intake of breath signaled that he'd struck a tender nerve. Orient approached Orgaz slowly.

"Are the names too sacred to be spoken by infidels? I thought everyone knew about the trinity of the Broken Cross."

Christian stood up, blue lips compressed into a tight smile and eyes flat with anger. "Please take my word, doctor. I don't understand what you're talking about."

"Never heard of the skull of Schamballah?" he persisted, keeping Henry in his line of vision as he neared the table.

Christian nodded his head slightly.

Before Henry could get up, Orient lunged and grabbed the candelabrum with both hands. When he swung the heavy iron base over his head, time skidded to a stop; Henry's body seemed suspended by invisible strings above his chair, and Christian's arms extended from his shoulders like those of a sleepwalker.

"Don't be foolish," he was saying. "Sit down, my friend. Explain what's troubling you. If you need anything, you will have it."

Resisting the balmy insinuations, Orient turned and flung the flaming candelabrum directly at Henry's head.

The youth dived to the floor, clawing for Orient's ankles, but they were already moving toward the door. He sprinted down the stairs and across the empty kitchen, scrambling wildly to reach the protective darkness outside.

The river bank was silent as he hurried down the steep slope and threaded the muddy tangle around the water to the inlet where Hussein was waiting.

As soon as he boarded, Hussein wordlessly poled the boat into the current, and in a few moments they were floating downstream, away from the swiftly fading mansion.

"You find your wife all right?" he asked, coming back to the tiller.

"I found her," Orient replied between breaths. "But not all right."

When they reached a docking area near the hotel, he gave the boatman more instructions.

"Watch the house. If anything happens, the smallest thing, come and get me."

Hussein nodded. "I get my sister to watch house from the street. She very beautiful, so soldiers will let her pass."

Avoiding the lobby, Orient cut across the hotel courtyard to Memphis' cabin. When she opened the door, he saw the worry shadowing her violet eyes.

"You were gone so long," she whispered. "I wanted to go out and look for you. Are they there?"

He dropped wearily on the bed.

"I saw them. But it was easier getting in than out."

"Did you find out anything?"

"Only that the trinity of the Broken Cross is a touchy subject with Orgaz. It was the first time I've seen him get rattled."

"Was Lily there?" Memphis asked hesitantly. "Yes."

She bit her lip. "How did you feel about it?"

He studied his wrinkled palms. "I felt like an intruder."

Orient's earlier calculations had put the time for the apex of the moon at eleven-twenty-seven. At ten-thirty he heard a shuffling outside, and a light tap on the door.

Memphis answered, and a small boy wearing an oversized turban entered. "Hussein says you come," he told her.

Orient reached for a sweater. "I'll see you later."

"Let me go with you this time," Memphis implored.

"No. Wait here. If anything happens, I'll send word."

The boy glared at him. "Hussein say bring woman. Like tourists on Nile." Without waiting for Orient's decision, Memphis snatched up a shawl and hurried after the boy.

Hussein's boat was waiting at the small docking area across the gardens. "Quick, please," he grunted, helping Memphis aboard. As Orient jumped in after her, he pushed away from shore.

"What's going on?" Orient asked softly.

"First we talk business," the boatman said briskly. "You pay only to find your wife. Our work finished. All this will be more expensive."

"How much more?"

"Only a hundred pound."

"Good thing I remembered my bag," Memphis murmured. "As it happens, I have only ninety-five with me. Will it do?"

Hussein grinned. "You pay rest tomorrow."

"Did they leave the house?" Orient pressed. "Or did someone come?"

"Both. General Gamir come one hour ago. Very important general. Then two men and woman left house." He pointed. "They took boat."

Following the line of his finger over the moon-slashed water, Orient saw a single bobbing red light near the opposite bank.

"They must have a car waiting," he said. "We're going to lose them."

"Don't worry," Hussein assured him. "You will find them. I arrange with my sister's husband to bring his auto."

As wind filled the sail, Orient stared fixedly at the red light receding into the silvery cliffs on the opposite shore.

It seemed that they remained on the river for a long time after the light blinked out, but when they reached the west bank and found Hussein's brother-in-law, the thin elderly man pointed out a pair of dim headlights in the distance, heading across the silver desert.

The car he provided was an ancient wood-frame station wagon that coughed sluggishly as Orient pressed the accelerator to the floor, and his face against the windshield, trying to keep the bouncing lights in sight.

It wasn't difficult at first. They were speeding over a vast plain illuminated by a high, fat moon, and he could make out the contours of the automobile ahead. But then the road wound through a series of deeply shadowed ravines, and the car's lights were visible for only scattered moments before being swallowed by the darkness.

Orient swore softly and pumped the accelerator, trying to coax more speed from the straining vehicle.

The road dipped, then rose onto an enormous plateau, its wide, pocked face clearly visible under the glaring moon. Orient saw that the car ahead had gained distance and was almost at the foot of a mountain whose pyramid-shaped top shone like a white beacon against the black sky.

"Owen, behind you!" Memphis called out, twisting in her seat. "Look out!"

He barely had time to look in the mirror and spin the wheel as a dark mass struck the side of the car with a crunching sound, sending it skidding off the road into the sand. Then the motor went dead, and the only noise he could hear was the deep receding whine of the other car racing across the desert.

"You all right?"

"Fine," Memphis answered. "As soon as I swallow my heart. Traffic is tough out here."

"I guess the second car hung back to make sure they weren't followed."

"They've succeeded, haven't they?"

He flexed his thoughts against the frustration binding his will. "Maybe not. Let's see how badly we're hit."

Except for some splintered wood and a broken headlight, the car was undamaged. After a few unsuccessful attempts to revive the engine, Orient opened the glove compartment, found a flashlight, and took a look under the hood. In a few moments he found a loose wire and started to replace it.

"Everything okay?" Memphis whispered.

"Almost, in a -- "

"Put up your hands!" somebody yelled in Arabic, and the area around the stalled car flared with blindingly harsh light. Orient slowly raised his arms.

Four soldiers with rifles extended came to the side of the car, opened the door, and pulled Memphis out.

They were dressed in khaki uniforms topped with red-checked turbans, and spoke only a few broken words of English.

"What are you doing here?" an officer growled at them in Arabic.

"We're tourists," Orient told him, handing over his passport.

"Why is it you speak such fluent Arabic?" he demanded.

"I'm here to study the tombs." Orient smiled, receiving no response from the fiercely glowering soldiers.

The Arab officer studied the papers Memphis gave him carefully, then handed them back to her. After a brief inspection of Orient's passport, however, he threw it to the ground, cursing angrily.

Confused, Orient bent to pick it up and was nudged away by a pair of rifle barrels.

"Come with us," the officer barked.

"Call the Savoy Hotel," Orient protested. "They know us there."

The officer turned his back. Orient was prodded forward, marched to a spot about twenty yards from the car, then ordered to put his hands behind his back.

"We're tourists," Orient repeated as his wrists were tightly bound. "Call the hotel."

The officer looked away, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and began folding it into a narrow strip.

Chapter 24

Memphis stood unmoving, hand pressed to her mouth as the soldiers led Orient away. But when the handkerchief was placed over his eyes, she started running toward him.

Dodging one of the soldiers, she pushed the officer away, tore the blindfold from Orient's face, and threw both arms around him, nails digging into his back.

"If you kill him, you must kill me," she cried. "You fools. Call General Gamir. General Gamir."

Her fingers seemed to knead his chopped awareness together.

"Call General Gamir," he repeated quickly in Arabic. "He knows us."

The name of Christian's visitor had an immediate effect. For a moment it was completely silent, and he saw the officer's seamy face twitch between fury and confusion. The soldiers had lowered their rifles and were looking at him questioningly.

Scowling, the officer dropped his hand to the heavy knife at his belt. The blade flashed in the moonlight as he stepped behind Orient and cut the cords binding his wrists.

Memphis pressed her face against his chest and closed her eyes.

The officer stepped back, shouted an order, then spat at Orient's feet, before following his men across the sand. Hands still frozen behind his back, and heart jumping wildly against Memphis' trembling body, Orient watched them disappear into the darkness at the base of a small hill.

He wrapped her in his arms and held her close until he felt the tension draining from her shoulders.

"It's all right," he whispered. "They're gone."

She looked up, eyes wide and dark against luminously pale skin. "They were going to execute you right here."

"But you remembered what Hussein told us," he reminded, rocking her softly.

She took a deep breath and tried to smile.

"Yes, it's all right now. Thank God."

He kissed her gently. "That bluff could have cost your life. I won't forget."

"Nor will I." Memphis shivered, pressing into the hollow between his chest and shoulder as they walked to the station wagon. "Those fools. The very least they could have done is help us start the engine."

After a few minutes under the hood Orient reconnected the wire, and the motor coughed and shook awake.

"I'll take you back to the boat," Orient said. "Then come back for a look."

Memphis shook her head emphatically. "If you're still going after them, so am I. Let's not waste more time; they've gained at least twenty minutes."

They drove without lights, letting the moon's diffuse glow guide their passage across the desert plateau. At the foothills, a veil of shadows forced Orient to switch on the one dim headlight still working. The road corkscrewed around the face of the pyramid-topped mountain, and as they rounded a bend, the light picked out the reflectors of a car parked between two boulders.

He braked, shut down the light, and waited.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he motioned Memphis to stay down and eased out of the door. Holding the extinguished flashlight like a club in his upraised hand, he slowly approached the boulders.

When he neared the car, he saw someone sitting in the back seat and stopped. He crouched, picked up a large stone, and duck-walked over to the side where the figure was sitting.

For long moments the stillness remained unbroken. Then he tossed the stone. Just as it struck the hood, Orient flung the door open and thrust the blazing flashlight against the man's head.

Henry's wide-eyed, lifeless face grinned back at him like a wax display dummy.

He stood transfixed, one hand gripping the door and the other the flashlight, trying to comprehend.

He gave it up when he remembered where he was.

If any soldiers found them, no amount of bluffing could save them from a firing squad. After quickly examining the body and checking the car, he trotted back to the station wagon.

"Was that the car that ran us down?" Memphis whispered.

He shook his head. "Don't think so. Not a scratch on the car. But there's a corpse inside. Christian's friend Henry."

He started the engine and shifted into reverse. "No trace of what killed him, just like the others."

Orient backed the car around and drove to the plateau below the mountain.

When they were well away from the foothills, he turned the car off the road and parked behind the gigantic stone base of a ruined colossus sitting majestically alone on the moon-gilded desert.

"What are we waiting for?" Memphis asked.

He stretched out his legs. "The car that tried to run us down is still up there. And there's only one road back."

In less than a half-hour a pair of rearing lights emerged from the darkness and crawled across the flat terrain; then the silhouette of a car became clear against the glowing sand.

"Hold on," Orient grunted as the car jerked forward and spun around the corner of the huge base, sending a screeching hail of sand and rubber into the sky.

He sped diagonally across the flat plain, trying to cut the car off, but it was much faster. Its motor exploded, and it surged ahead, howling past before Orient could reach the road. He squeezed the shuddering wheel and pressed his foot down, vainly trying to cut the expanding distance between them.

As they neared the river, he saw the car turn off the road and fishtail across the desert toward a range of jagged cliffs.

Orient followed, switching on the light when they entered the darkened foothills, and slowing down to scan the barren, unfamiliar area. For a few anxious minutes he thought he'd lost the car, then spotted it ahead, standing motionless at the top of a small knoll.

He braked and reached for the flashlight. "If I'm not back soon, get Hussein."

When Orient reached the car, he found it empty.

He circled around, checking the exterior, and saw the metallic scratches extending from door to bumper on the passenger side.

He left the car and walked to the edge of an immense natural bowl formed by a ring of sloping hills, whose floor was carpeted with round, moon-tinted stones.

He clambered down the steep incline, crossed the pebbled floor to the stairs, and switched on his light. There was a metal door below. He hurried down and found it locked.

The rattle of a misplaced rock pulled him up the stairs. He scurried to the center of the bowl, sweeping the shadows with his flashlight, and saw another door at the end of a long ramp, cut into the base of a cliff. His footsteps cracked against the silence as he scrambled down. The door was locked, but he saw something in the stone above, and lifted his light: "Burial chamber of King Tutankhamen."

As he read the words a sharp sound flicked his reflexes, and he sprinted to the top of the ramp.

There was nothing except a silent expanse of rubble.

He began edging toward the knoll, to get a better view of the area, when the dry thud of falling earth stopped him.

Whirling, he scanned upward for the source of the disturbance and glimpsed a shadow moving across the bleached rock high above him.

Just before it disappeared around the face of the cliff, he was able to distinguish the shape of a man, white hair flashing in the moonlight like a silver turban.

Orient considered climbing after him, but knew it was hopeless. He was in the tomb area in the Valley of the Kings. There were any number of caves, undiscovered chambers, and village huts nearby that could hide him. Orgaz had won. Tonight he'd complete the four-year cycle of sacrifice. There was nothing left to do but wait to be exterminated.

Memphis shared his silence until they neared the river bank.

"Did you see anyone back there?" she asked softly.

He nodded, teeth clenched against the weariness creeping up his neck like a numbing disease. "Oliver Fish was the man who tried to run us down. He got away."

After promising to reimburse Hussein's wailing brother-in-law for the damage to his car, Memphis and Orient settled down in the anchored boat to keep watch on the river. They sat huddled in the darkness for hours, but only a few barges disturbed the silence on the moon-glazed water.

By the time they returned to the bungalow, Orient's parched nerves were wilting under the glare of a headache. He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes against the pain corroding his will.

"You look exhausted," Memphis murmured. "Rest, my love. There'll be other days."

He started to speak, but her mouth covered his words as she gently nudged him back to the pillow.

"Try to relax," she whispered, opening the buttons of his shirt.

She slipped the shirt off his shoulders, and her fingers became restless trails of heat across his skin.

"Lie back, my darling," she crooned hoarsely, hands cradling his battered senses with gentle warmth.

She left him for a moment, and when she returned, smooth naked skin covered his body like a satin blanket. As her moist lips nuzzled his neck and chest, the drowsiness was stirred by an electric wind blowing gusts of delight along his spine. The sensations circled slowly over his belly, then began spinning faster when they reached his groin.

The delicious intensity gathered momentum, sucking away all pain. Flurries of pleasure billowed his senses, and he moaned softly. The mass expanded, whirling past an ecstatic squall before it collapsed, rushing him down fur-padded corridors of sleep....

He opened his eyes and saw Memphis bending over him, pale smile shaded with worry.

"Sleep well?"

He ran his fingertip over her velvety lips. "Like a sheik."

"Hussein is here."

His memory jumped awake, pulling his shoulders off the bed. "Where is he?"

She gently pushed him back.

"Outside. I told him you weren't dressed. Or isn't modesty among your many virtues?"

He grinned and reached for his trousers. "Not with friends."

When Orient opened the door, Hussein shuffled inside, head bent low.

"God's blessings on all your mornings," he greeted in Arabic.

Orient took his outstretched hand. "May the Lord give the gift of peace to all your children."

"The woman left Luxor." The boatman announced sadly, "Early this morning my sister come and say baron and English girl left for airport. I find out they take special plane for Cairo."

Memphis glanced at Orient. "There must be a plane today."

"In three hours," Hussein informed her proudly. "My uncle in ticket office. I already make reservation for you. Whole service. Only twenty pound. Plus five from last night."

Orient's confused thoughts rattled past hollow emotions as the taxi left the Savoy Hotel and sped across the flat irrigated farmland behind the temple ruins of Karnak.

The fact that he was able to move freely puzzled him. It seemed odd that Orgaz would leave him undisturbed after achieving his objective. He'd been sure Christian would test his power immediately. He wondered if Henry had been the intended victim of the ritual all along.

Perhaps some unforeseen event had triggered the choice, Orient brooded, watching the airport soldiers go through his bags. Maybe his presence had upset the timing of the ritual. The possibility quickened his pace as he followed Memphis across the field to the small twin-engined plane.

When he'd adjusted his seat belt he began a slow-breathing pattern, trying to clear away the murky exhaustion, but the certainty that he'd overlooked something webbed his concentration. The only constant link to the murders was the L brand, and Henry hadn't been marked.

As the plane circled higher over the desert, he declined lunch and asked the stewardess for a pad of paper.

Still musing over the possible meaning of the sign, he drew groups of L's in an attempt to form an occult configuration. He went over the ancient formulas of power, picking out words that began with L, and found sixteen. Four times four.

He remembered that Oliver had told him about the cycle. Four sacrifices every year for four years. He began listing the words, and dividing them, hoping to find the key to some organic talisman.

Separate or together the words showed nothing that made sense to him, and the paper became covered with a blur of angled marks.

He was just starting a fresh sheet when something familiar flickered in the chaos. Two of the L's were at right angles to each other, suggesting a precise image.

He drew four L's on the white paper, joining the letters at the top so they pointed in four different directions.

The symbol sent hopeful flares across his dim weariness. "That's it," he grunted.

"What's it?" Memphis inquired, hand caressing the back of his neck. "Eureka time?"

"Could be. Look at this. Four L's placed in this position make an interesting pattern."

Her fingers hesitated. "Owen, it's a swastika."

"And an important part of Christian's occult code, I think."

"The symbol of the Nazi party? You think the murders have any political significance?"

"Could be. All the victims were Jewish. Perhaps it's part of some personal sacrificial pogrom. Even before the Nazis adopted it, the swastika was one of the primary signs of ritual magic."

She took the paper from his hand and stared down at the figure. "Maybe it has something to do with the war. Christian seems very friendly with the right generals."

Orient leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The symbol had another meaning in the talismanic hierarchy. His conclusion that Christian was conducting his sacrifices to mark the cycles of the moon was completely wrong. The broken cross of the swastika was the first sign of the sun. There might be some time left before Orgaz made the connection to the true source of his power.

Chapter 25

When the plane landed, Memphis went ahead with the luggage to Shepheard's, while Orient took a cab to Ein el Shams, the ancient seat of astronomy and mathematics.

At the university Orient was able to look up a particularly interesting piece of information. The winter solstice of the sun was due to occur the next day, at seventeen minutes after noon. If his new calculation was correct, there were still eighteen hours before Christian's ritual.

The library was about to close, but he prevailed on the director to let him examine some of the papyrus scrolls of Imhotep that the university had in its possession.

The director seemed amused by the request.

"These writings are rarely examined," he told Orient, leading him to a basement storage room. "But just this morning another foreign gentleman asked to see them. He was quite insistent."

"Perhaps it was an associate of mine," Orient suggested. "Was he young, very fair-skinned?"

"Oh, no. An older gentleman." The director tenderly arranged a series of feathery, glass-covered texts on the table. "Unfortunately, because of the late hour I can give you only one more hour to study them. Are you familiar with hieroglyphic writing, or do you require my assistance?"

Assuring him that he was able to translate the symbols, Orient sat down at the table and began copying down the pictures on a pad of paper. As he scanned the texts, he saw that they were exactly what he was seeking. The scrolls outlined the paths of stellar constellations, and told of the precise timing necessary for conducting both medical surgery and occult rituals of power. The texts had been written by Imhotep and were among the earliest scientific records known to history.

Most were already known to him, having been translated and incorporated into the grimoires of Solomon, Pythagoras, Abra el Melin, Albertus Magnus, Pope Honorius III, and other powerful adepts of the occult sciences.

Two of the scrolls contained formulas that were unfamiliar, however. One was a short invocation to the powers of fertility. The other was a rite that could be conducted only at the moment of the winter solstice, when the sun was at its highest declination from the equator. The ritual for raising the dead to life.

Both formulas were extremely difficult to translate. They were written in a slightly different style of hieroglyphic symbology and seemed to be arranged in code form. Brow pleated with concentration, he continued copying the script, deciphering its meaning as he wrote. Even though he'd learned the Abjad number system used by early priests to prevent their secrets from being usurped, it took him a long time to translate the sun ritual.

His efforts were frustrated by the discovery that the formula was incomplete. It gave some preparatory astronomical data, then broke off at the end of the page.

The director popped his balding head inside the small room. "Another ten minutes, doctor. We're locked up for the day."

He gathered his notes. "Are these the only manuscripts Imhotep wrote?"

"Yes. Only nine pages were recovered from the ruins of the great Heliopolis libraries after they were burned by Alexander. Most of his scientific tracts were lost."

Orient looked up. "Nine scrolls? There are only eight plates here."

Beads of sweat appeared on the director's sallow forehead, and his moustache lifted in a nervous smile.

"I'm sure you're mistaken," he said nervously, quickly counting the eight glass plates. The smile was gone when he looked up.

"Would you object to a search, doctor?"

Orient had no objections, and when it was over, saw that the director's nervousness had escalated.

"The man who came this morning must have taken the text," he groaned. "The Englishman."

"Very long white hair and moustache? Wearing heavy jewelry?"

The director wrung his hands. "Yes. That's the one. You know this man? Who is he? The scroll must be returned before it's destroyed. It's too old to be moved."

"His name is Oliver Fish," he said softly. "But I don't know where you can find him."

The director backed toward the door.

"Please wait here. I must phone the police."

Orient waited a few moments, then left the room, hurried up the stairs, and left the library by a side door. He couldn't afford to get involved with the police. At best, they'd question him for days.

Dusk was settling when the cab reached Shepheard's, but instead of rejoining Memphis, Orient went across the street to the Night and Day Cafe.

Rashid was sitting at his usual table.

"Welcome, doctor," he greeted effusively. "I trust you found everything to your satisfaction in Luxor? How is your beautiful lady?"

Orient nodded and pulled up a chair.

"Hussein did an excellent job. But now I need something from you."

He folded his hands. "Tell me what it is."

"I want you to show me where my wife is staying here in Cairo. And I'll need a car."

"Of course, you understand that this will be a great expense," he rumbled. "My cousin -- "

"There's no time to bargain now, my friend," Orient snapped in Arabic. "Your expenses will be covered. But I must get there right away. Make sure the car you give me is in good condition."

Rashid sighed and lumbered to his feet.

"May Allah give you patience, doctor. Please wait here while I make a telephone call."

Eleven minutes later, by Orient's anxious watch, Rashid returned and led him out to a green Jaguar Mark II sedan parked in the lot behind the hotel.

He drove Orient through the crowded, torchlit squares to a sprawling suburban area.

In contrast to the jammed urban slums, the streets became wider, cleaner, and empty. The lawns were expertly manicured and the large private homes neatly kept.

He parked beside a tall eucalyptus tree standing in front of a comfortable Georgian-style residence.

"Is this where they're staying?"

"No, no, my impatient friend," Rashid replied. "One cannot be too bold in these matters. Your wife is in that large house over there, across the street."

Orient's eyes followed his plump finger to an ultramodern three-story home made of limestone and glass, set far back off the street and partially concealed by a row of palm trees. A black Mercedes was parked in the drive.

"This is where I leave you," the Egyptian told him. "I have other affairs to attend to. When you are finished with the automobile, please leave it in the parking lot at the hotel."

He lifted his sunglasses and gave Orient a paternal smile.

"Remember, please, that this car has false license plates and the documents in the glove compartment are forged. Should you be stopped, my relatives will see to it that my car is returned, but you will lose a great deal. Do not attempt anything foolish with this baron. He has the protection of our highest officials."

Orient nodded, still watching the house across the street. "Do me one more favor, Rashid. Contact the lady at Shepheard's and tell her I'll be away for a few hours. Perhaps all night."

"It will be my pleasure. But" -- he replaced his glasses, and the smile became apologetic -- "I'll need money in advance. After all, these are troubled days in Cairo. Anything could happen to an impetuous American. It's only a matter of a hundred pounds. I'm sure you understand."

"The lady will take care of the fee."

He took a piece of paper and pen from his pocket and scribbled a note. "Give her this. She'll understand."

"What if she doesn't understand? What will I do? You have my car -- "

"Just phone your relatives on the police force. There can't be many Jaguars with false plates in Cairo."

Rashid considered the deal, then bowed his head slightly.

"All right, doctor. It will be done as you suggest." He awkwardly slid his bulk from under the steering wheel and waddled off in search of a taxi.

Orient lit a cigarette and waited. In a short time the purple sky disappeared into a blackness that was minimally relieved by the yellow lights filling the windows of nearby homes. The long glass panels of Orgaz' residence stayed dark, however, and he began to wonder if anyone was there.

As the hours stretched past midnight, the doubts multiplied, picking at his thoughts like shrill carrion. By taking the scroll from the university, Fish had managed to prevent his gaining the one weapon he might have been able to use against the trinity. At every junction he'd been anticipated and defeated by Christian and Oliver. Most likely they were preparing for the culmination of the rite somewhere else, and he was waiting in front of an empty house, pockets stuffed with useless formulas. He leaned over to check the glove compartment for a flashlight. Using its glow, he studied the notes he'd taken from Imhotep's texts. After a brief fertility spell, there were only some directions for the preparation of a powerful sun rite for the restoration of life, before the tract cut off.

Two distant white columns of light drew his eyes from the paper. He switched off the flash and started the motor as the windows in Christian's house blinked on, remained lit for a few seconds, then went out. A few moments later a pair of headlights flooded across the drive to the street.

Orient crouched down, waiting until the lights had passed the Jaguar and turned the corner in its rear-view mirror before easing around to follow.

He stayed well back on the wide avenue outside the city, but when the Mercedes swung into a traffic-narrowed square, he was forced to douse his lights and close the distance.

He recognized the route the Mercedes was taking across the Nile as the one leading to the Giza plateau. A few minutes after entering a busy torchlit quarter, however, the car ahead stopped in front of a low concrete building.

Orient slumped low as he rolled past the Mercedes, unable to see the occupants of the car. Seconds later a blond man left the car and entered the frame of the rear-view mirror.

Palms wet and mouth dry, Orient parked the sedan at the end of the street. He tried to relax, but the knots of soldiers patrolling the area kept him tense. If he was stopped, he'd have to plead ignorance of the curfew. And he wasn't even registered at the hotel.

Partly from need and partially to shake the tangled anxieties from his muscles, Orient risked leaving the sedan. He took a short walk to a food stall that was just setting up for business on the street corner, and bought three bottles of mineral water, a few grams of salt, and a small loaf of bread. When he returned to the car, he checked the mirror for the dark shape of the Mercedes before prying the cap from the water bottle and draining its contents in four swallows.

The water dissolved the sheets of dryness stuffing his throat, and he opened another bottle. Nervousness parched his tongue a moment after the last bottle was consumed. He opened the newspaper-wrapped mound of salt and put a small amount into all his pockets, soundlessly intoning a prayer of purification. When he'd finished, he broke two pieces of bread from the loaf. He put one chunk into his shirt pocket and ate the other, to complete the protective formula.

The bread seemed to moisten his throat, and he leaned back against the cracked leather seat and stared into the mirror. They were taking a long time. He considered going back to check the concrete building, and decided to wait another half-hour.

Forty minutes later the glass flashed with bright light. Orient slid down low in his seat and started the motor as the Mercedes cruised past on its way to the corner. He waited a few more seconds, then slowly pulled away after it, hanging back as far as possible, until the car ahead left the market squares and began speeding toward open land.

Dawn was spilling over the edge of the desert as the Mercedes' red tail signals floated toward the shadowy outlines of the pyramids. Orient drove without lights, grateful for the sedan's crisp response to his demands.

Just before reaching the rise where the stone structures were massed, the tail-lights went out.

Orient decreased his speed and peered through the thick gloom, trying to make out the features of the road ahead.

A bobbing red flicker to the left brought the sedan to a complete stop. He backed up a few feet and turned onto a small road that curved past the plateau of pyramids toward the quarry cliffs across the desert. The winding tree-walled road cut down his vision at first, but soon the trees fell away and the sedan emerged onto a flat, unshadowed plain, enabling him to see the red pinpoints clearly against the chopped black cliffs. The sedan leaped forward as a sudden impulse ignited Orient's reflexes.

In a few hours Christian would complete his ritual, but at that moment was alone on an unprotected wasteland. It was an almost certain chance, if he was willing to risk smashing himself up as well, and he decided to take it. The choice seemed to cut through the bands of fear squeezing his abdomen, and a serene calm billowed through his thoughts when he floored the accelerator. Even the possibility that Lily was in the car ahead didn't lighten the pressure of his foot as the red taillights grew larger.

The sedan swayed slightly as it raced over the sand-slicked road, and he fervently hoped the tires would hold long enough to get to the Mercedes.

The red lights veered away from the darkened plateau and went out. Orient saw the dark shape receding toward the streaked horizon and settled down for an endurance run. Not caring any longer about being seen, he switched on the lights, but the Mercedes stayed just beyond their span. Then he saw the road ahead dipping into a series of hilly dunes, and sprinted to close the gap.

When the road leveled, he was close enough to catch the car's reflectors with his lights, and he began nosing for a place to pass. He was asking too much.

A rear tire gave out at the end of a whining bend, extending the sedan's slide past the edge of the road. The wheel jerked in his hands, as the nose swung toward a ravine, and he gripped hard, toes jamming for a deeper spot under the brake.

The ditch dropped away from his careening vision, and a large boulder screeched toward the windshield, then stopped, catapulting him into silence.

Chapter 26

Orient became aware of the clock-like ticking of hot metal. He lifted his head and saw that the sedan was leaning down an incline, bumper gently resting against a bulging rock.

When he got out of the car, he felt bunches of muscles in his arm, leg, and neck contract, and knew they'd feel worse in an hour. Spasmodic pains were already twisting across his lower back. He leaned against the door, scanning the plain for a long time, but the Mercedes had disappeared into the dawn-lightened sands.

The sedan had a spare, but the engine wouldn't turn over, and the physical backlash of the skid made it difficult to move his body. He worked as rapidly as possible in the damp cold, ignoring the pinched cramps from shoulder to thigh. The dusky stillness lifted as the sun leaked over the dunes, and the desert wriggled with life. He kept at the repairs without pause, knowing that the morning light increased the chance of being spotted by some curious military patrol.

Daylight was pouring over the plains by the time the engine responded. A tentative run through the gears showed that the engine was sluggish but undamaged, and as he drove, Orient tried to reset his sense of direction.

The road curved away from the quarries and cut diagonally across a stretch of irrigated farmland toward an oddly shaped pyramid. He recognized the tilted slope of the sides and top and realized he was heading toward Dashur, away from Giza. He'd lost two hours working on the sedan. Christian could have gone anywhere in that time. He continued toward Dashur for another half-hour before conceding defeat and turning back.

The wrenched back muscles bent him into an uncomfortable posture behind the wheel, and a throbbing in his brain blurred his sight as he drove back to Cairo. He went into a regular-breathing pattern, trying to pry the pain from his ability to function. The morning was clear, and when the sedan came over the crest of a hill, he saw the distant outline of the Great Pyramid, far beyond the looming stepped ruins of Saqqara just ahead.

Instinctively he slowed down, the memory of his astral journey skipping across his mind like a stone over water. The area was awake with traffic as he approached; pajama-clad children, robed farmers, and soldiers plodded along the edges of the dirt road, moving occasionally to allow some heavily laden mule or car to pass. The sedan's engine was almost idling as Orient passed them, eyes prowling the flat land for the Mercedes.

Fear faded into futility as he rolled past the complex of pyramids and the yellow stones rose up, then fell away into the sun-scoured desert outside his window without divulging a sign. He continued for another half-mile past the north face of the stepped pyramid before sighting it.

Protruding from a cleft between two low dunes a short distance from the road was the black hood of a car, chrome grille winking in the sunlight. He saw a level area farther ahead and parked.

The stiff muscles in his back yielded grudgingly when he stepped out of the sedan to survey the sand-dusted wasteland. He expanded the cycle of his breathing, trying to loosen the pinched nerves along his spine. At first he limped awkwardly, but as he intensified his concentration, the painful grip eased, freeing his neck and hip. Walking carefully on the uncertain terrain, he crossed the short stretch of rubbled land to the dunes. When he rounded the sloping edge of the nearest mound, he saw the inverted peace triad ornamenting the dirt-smudged black hood of the Mercedes.

Turning, he squinted across the glaring sands at the stepped pyramid. Nothing moved in his vision except road traffic.

A search of the car revealed very little -- a pair of silver-rimmed sunglasses on the visor above the windshield and a pink silk scarf caught in the corner of the front seat. Passing the pink fabric under his nostrils, he dimly recalled the scent as Lily's. He stuffed the cloth in one pocket, the glasses in another, moved away from the Mercedes, and started pacing off a wide half-circle over the sands, using the stepped ruins as his center.

He stopped when he was around the west face of the structure and reached for the scarf. Crouching down on one knee, he wrapped the silken fabric around his palm, concentration drawing his senses to the back of his brain. Magnetic flutters of energy clustered around his awareness, lifting his head.

His gaze drifted across the bleak sea of undulating land and stopped at a large bank of dusty earth a few hundred feet away. When he walked toward the spot, the flutters increased, pulling his senses forward. He kept the scarf clutched in his fist as he approached the bank of rubble, muscles tuned to the orbit of his concentration. Rivulets of sweat ran over parched lips, and he paused to wipe his face with the silken cloth. The fragrance was more acute now, and undoubtedly Lily's. The intermittent pulses multiplied, spreading over his reflexes, when he reached the mound.

Half dune and half heap of rubbled stone, the bank was fifty feet long, ten feet high, and located perhaps three hundred yards below the north face of Zoser's stepped pyramid.

Emptying his conscious mind, he allowed the thick field of empathetic energy to guide him over the rock-marked ground. He went completely around the mound, stopped, and came back walking very slowly along its shadowed edge, eyes fanning the slope. All he saw were bits of broken white stone held together with coarse sand.

The ragged edge of an old newspaper lifted into his vision. Before it fell he saw a reddish chunk of rusted iron at the base of the dune. He kicked the newspaper aside, and a sheet of sand and pebbles slid over his shoe, rubble-covered sections of cardboard and newspaper fell away, revealing an iron gate. He cleared the rest of the debris away and pulled at the gate. It was unlocked.

He peered inside, and seeing nothing but blackness, wondered if he should go back to the sedan for the flashlight. He stepped away, looking for the spot where he'd left the Jaguar, and couldn't find it. The road itself seemed very far away across the hot, desolate terrain. Then he glimpsed the bright yellow terraces of the stepped pyramid, baking in the strong sun like stacks of mud bricks, and realized there was too little time. In less than two hours the sun would be at its highest point over the equator.

He rummaged through his clothes, found a lighter and box of matches, and striking a match, saw a row of iron bars forming a crude stairway inside the narrow passage. He dropped the match, and it struck the floor a short distance below, before going out. He put the matches back in his pocket and crawled feet-first through the passage.

Fingers hooked around the gate, and body forced into an awkward angle by the agony twisting through his back, he felt for the bars with his heels. His feet found an inclined bottom, taking the weight off his wrists and enabling him to lower his pain-welded spine into the darkness. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the change from blaring sunlight to silent blackness before edging farther down the incline.

The damp walls widened as the slope leveled off, and after a few yards he could stand comfortably. He clicked the lighter, illuminating a low stone ceiling and sharply angled walls before the flame went out. He cupped his hand around the wick to protect it from the steady breeze of cool air flowing at him, and clicked again.

The walls were granite and continued past the timid frontier of light cast by the flame. A mob of doubts broke past his calm when the flame went out. He began perspiring, despite the damp chill, and paused in the dark corridor to rebalance his concentration. As he absorbed and expelled air, he separated his senses from the discomfort and fear and launched them beyond the battered boundaries of his own existence.

As his concentration settled, the tension embracing his muscles gave way, and he moved ahead into the blackness. From time to time he'd stop to strike a light, but the only change in the passage as he continued was the dirt crust making the walls narrower. Then the air stirred slightly, and the certainty that Lily was near buzzed through his senses. He lit a match and held it out. Just ahead, the passage forked and became two tunnels. The memory of his astral journey clawed his concentration. Suppressing the fears, he followed his tuned instincts into the left-hand tunnel.

The passage was roughly cleared, and the loose dirt crunching like snow under his feet gave him the impression that the corridor was newly opened. His luminous watch dial showed that more than fifteen minutes had elapsed since he uncovered the gate, and he presumed this tunnel was very near the pyramid. As he went on, the floor began to slope upward, and it seemed that the pitch-blackness around him was becoming more dilute. He was able to distinguish the crude features of the ceiling and walls as the slope became steeper, and saw that the darkness was dissolving into a grayish light above. He moved faster toward the source of the illumination, and when he reached the top of the incline, he saw it -- a reed of white light shooting down from the arched ceiling of a cramped chamber to the base of a stone wall.

He widened his orbit of awareness as he studied the ceiling. He was certain the miniature chamber was someplace inside the stepped pyramid, where sunlight was being reflected through the thick granite slabs from outside. The light needled through a chink between two of the six roof stones and hit the precise seam where two blocks joined at the floor. Wondering if the placement was intentional, he examined the patch of light closely. Senses poised, his fingertips stroked a crack in the wall just above the light. His thumb pushed against the stone, and a lever swiveled toward him.

His pounding heart drowned out the metallic scrape when he grasped the lever and the granite block edged away from the wall. He braced his feet, exerting more force on the lever, and the slab rotated back, revealing a corridor. At the end of the corridor was a brightly lit room. He slipped through the opening and hurried toward the flickering glow.

He entered a large chamber whose walls were draped with white linen curtains. As in the outer room, a slender trickle of light dropped from the ceiling's arch joint and spotted the floor. A low, black velvet dome crouched beside a granite sarcophagus, also covered with black velvet. A pile of straw covered with white linen had been arranged into a plump mat on the stone floor a short distance from the dome. A tall, flaming urn marked the center of a painted circle nearby, and standing at the rim of the white circle, dressed in black robes, were Orgaz and Lily.

Christian's alabaster features were impassive, but a silvery glint of amusement streaked his blue pupils.

"You're late, Owen," he said casually. "We had to send someone to look for you."

The obsessive energy fueling Orient's will through the past forty-eight hours suddenly evaporated. He felt the air rush helplessly from his slumping lungs when he saw Lily's smile. She was propped against Christian's shoulder, hands clasped as if in prayer, a rapt expression of devotion fixed on her immobile features. He took a step toward her.

"Far enough," Christian drawled. His sleeve separated from the folds of the robe, exposing the revolver in his hand.

Emptied of fear by the despair scavenging his senses, he took another step.

The barrel extended like a metal finger from Christian's pale fist and pointed at Lily's waxy smile.

"You're probably resigned to the inevitable for yourself," he observed. "But perhaps you're not prepared to take the responsibility for another life. One more step and I'll kill her."

Orient wavered and stopped.

"Two bullets would be all it would take," Christian calculated, watching him intently.

"One for dear beautiful Lily, and the other for your groin. Nothing fatal for you, Owen. You won't die until it's convenient."

The mocking tone roused his numbed comprehension.

"Wasn't Henry sufficient this time?" he rasped, voice stumbling over cracked lips.

A tiny twitch at the corner of Christian's eye betrayed a moment of uncertainty.

"Everything's been quite sufficient," he snapped. "You'll survive long enough to attest to that fact."

The feeling that the reminder of Henry's death in Luxor had tripped Christian's confidence reached past the pain-lashed exhaustion, sending Orient's senses swarming around the uncertainty.

Clarity revived his flagging reflexes, as he realized Christian was at a disadvantage. Time still separated Christian from achieving the power he coveted, whereas Orient wanted nothing more than a chance to break the trinity's cycle. And at that moment, the only obstacle to that chance was a single revolver. His calm settled around the understanding, and he blinked away from the faded turquoise eyes.

"Lily..." he called out softly. "Listen to me."

"Listen to him, pet," Christian purred. "Tell Owen how happy you are to see him."

Coppery flames rippled across her hair when she looked at him.

"I'm so glad you came, Owen," she recited with chilling enthusiasm. "This is the most beautiful moment in man's history, and we've been privileged to witness its birth. I've dedicated my existence to this day. You've been honored to do the same."

"Like Henry?"

Her expression didn't waver.

"The only things that disturb Lily are things that disturb me," Christian said. "That's why I've made her my priestess."

Awareness poised on the gun, Orient turned and forced his lips into a smile.

"No other reason?"

Christian shrugged. "And the telepathy, of course. Your technique. Lily's already begun my instruction. Quite effective, as you can see."

"Didn't Henry's loss influence your choice?"

Christian's twitching eyelid signaled Orient that the area was still vulnerable. Every instinct felt the imbalance, as if something unexpected was threatening his security.

"You seem quite interested in my friend. Were you in love with him?" he asked.

"Has Lily taken his place in the trinity?" Orient pressed, hoping to rouse his temper.

Christian smiled instead.

"Only the most superior male examples of the Aryan race may wield the sacred powers of the trinity," he explained with elaborate patience. "I've chosen Lily to assist me today because of her special talents."

The flaming urn cast restless shadows across the stone floor as Orient measured the distance from where he stood to the rim of the circle, and the gun.

"You too will assist me, Owen," Christian was saying. "Now, please place your hands above your head and walk forward slowly to the mat."

He took a deep breath, gathering his tattered resources around his reflexes.

"Why don't you come over here?" he asked softly.

The corners of Christian's thin lips turned up in triumph. "Show Owen how well you can dance, Lily."

The joy stamped on her chiseled face dissolved into a boneless grimace of terror. Tears ran like watered ink over her blurred features, and she lifted her arms straight over her head, fingers scratching at the air. The muscles in her neck and jaw expanded into rigid cords when she cried out. Muted at first, like the strangled squeal when flesh is cut, the sound extended to frenzied whines of agony that convulsed her entire body as she fell to the floor. Her digging hands clutched at her head and came away full of hair.

"Stop it," Orient rasped. "I'll do as you say."

Cold perspiration matted his skin as he walked to the mat, hands held high.

"Very good," Christian congratulated. "You understand me at last."

He gazed fondly at the slumped, whimpering figure on the floor.

"Lily already understands. Now, please empty your pockets. Use only one hand. The bandaged one."

Orient looked up and saw Lily's scarf still wrapped around his hand, the fabric stained by sweat and dirt. He lowered the hand and slowly went through his pockets, instincts centered on finding a path to Christian's gun.

Bending with difficulty, he put his wallet, some papers, and the sunglasses he'd found in the Mercedes on the ground.

"How nice -- you've brought my driving glasses," Christian commented.

Orient picked them up. "I had a feeling they were yours. Would you -- ?"

"Keep your hands over your head."

As he lifted his arm, Orient let the glasses slip out of his fingers. One of the blue lenses cracked when it struck the stone floor.

Christian's smile compressed, and he lifted the gun.

Orient locked his concentration around the broken lens, understanding the source of his rage. The glasses held a point of vibrational empathy, linking with their owner. When they'd been deliberately destroyed, a layer of Christian's protective aura was also penetrated.

Lily's body arched as if speared, features contorted by a long, painful spasm that twisted her groans into dribbling sobs.

"Foolish man," Christian chided. "I could drive her to suicide. Shall I demonstrate, or do you prefer to apologize?"

"I'm... sorry I broke your glasses," Orient said contritely. "Please let her alone."

Christian leaned over and touched Lily's heaving back. When she lifted her head, the mascara-stained features were arranged into a joyously devout smile.

"You're wrong, Owen," he chuckled, watching his reaction. "Wrong to think your petty little games can stop me after a lifetime of preparation. Your quaint psychic research is insignificant, and your sentimental weaknesses are quite well known to us. That's why you're here. You didn't follow me, you were led. Every step was marked by us. We knew you'd come after Lily."

Orient's will tried to resist the unblinking blue eyes, but his concentration was faltering.

"Like you knew about Henry?"

The question broke against Christian's stony stare. "I admire your persistence, Owen, but it's futile. There's a world full of boys like Henry waiting to serve the New Man. Soon you too will serve, with your own life."

Orient set his feet, awareness stealing toward the revolver in Christian's hand.

"There's very little time before the solstice," he baited softly. "You still need two other men to form a trinity."

Christian crossed his arms, gun held loosely.

"Don't try to resist, Owen. My will is too strong. My father was the most powerful man on earth, and the genius who gave him that power, Von Hausoff himself, has been my guide since birth. In less than an hour the two most sublime minds in genetic history will be merged with the perfect vessel."

"Talking about me, old dear?"

Orient's head jerked toward the familiar voice.

Oliver Fish was at the entrance to the chamber, long white hair shining in the firelight and jeweled fist holding a pistol.

Frustration sagged Orient's coiled reflexes as he stared at the automatic pointed at his chest. He'd waited too long, and the last chance was gone.

The waxed ends of Fish's moustache lifted into a beaming smile.

"Hello, Christian, where's Von Hausoff?"

The vehement answer caught Orient by surprise.

"Throw the gun down," Christian warned, voice rising slightly, "or Lily's dead."

Oliver's smile became regretful. "Impossible, dear boy. If you move one hair, you're dead. I'm an excellent shot. Move away, now, Lily."

Orient turned and saw that Christian's arms were still crossed, with his revolver pointing harmlessly at the floor, completely out of position to defend himself. Lily was just behind him, rising to her feet. Instead of stepping away, however, she moved in front of Christian, shielding him with her body.

"Lily, don't!" Fish yelled.

Orient glimpsed the confusion spreading over his smiling face, then heard a flat crack and saw the confusion become a taut grin of pain. There was a sharp clatter when the pistol fell to the floor, but Oliver collapsed without a sound. He stared at the Englishman's crumpled body for stunned moments. Then a shuffle roused his eyes. Shock and fear collided in his belly when he saw her at the entrance.

"Get back," he croaked. "He's got a gun."

Memphis crouched over Fish's inert form. When she straightened up, she had a pistol in each hand.

"A bullet is the true source of power, my love," she said softly.

Chapter 27

The words didn't penetrate Orient's dazed comprehension as he watched her cross the chamber to Christian's side. Then he noticed her black robe.

Christian gestured with his revolver. "See, Owen. It's useless to resist."

Memphis nodded.

"You're very fortunate, my darling. You should have died the day we met, but I recognized your potential. Now you're privileged to die in a manner befitting your ideals. A sacrifice that will weld the mystical powers of the skull of Schamballah to the New Man."

Orient squinted through the dim glow, trying to focus on Memphis. Her face was blurred, as if floating under water, while successive breakers of shock, disbelief, and depression crushed every effort to understand. His will flailed through the paralyzing confusion and touched a frail reflex. He took a deep, controlled breath, gathering his senses around the familiar rhythm of the meditation pattern. He separated perception from the ravaged concerns of his physical self and reached another point of reality.

His detached awareness realized that the turmoil and pain were unimportant. He could drown in self-pity, vent his raging fear and frustration, or surrender to the sickening despair choking his desire to survive. His choice couldn't change the essential fact. He was a dead man. All that remained to spur his instincts was a blind desperation to keep his soul free. Nothing else mattered.

"You're really quite a remarkable specimen," Memphis was saying. "Your little lecture on this site was almost accurate. This chamber in the pyramid wasn't built by Imhotep, but countless years before, by the Aryan gods. This site is the holy of holies of Agarthi, the most sacred temple of Thule."

She came closer, and Orient saw the messianic glaze over her violet eyes.

Her jaw was clenched, and ivory knots of muscle hardened her delicate facial contours.

"You were right, my love," she purred. "The pyramid isn't a tomb. We're inside a gigantic generator, at the exact point where it accumulates vast stores of energy from the sun."

She turned to Christian and smiled.

"Owen deciphered the meaning of the L brand all by himself. Wasn't that brilliant?"

"Are you sure Oliver's dead?" Christian asked, a trace of annoyance sharpening his tone.

The smile faded.

"Never forget who controls the power of the skull," Memphis answered.

He reacted as if struck.

"I'm sorry... sir," he said quickly.

Her pale lips curled smugly.

"You're too impatient, young god. Before Owen gives his life to consecrate the dawning of the Fourth Reich, we should allow him to share in some of its glories. After all, he'll be denied a part in the exciting new order of civilization." She looked at Orient. "Come here, dearest."

He hesitated.

"I can wound you in places where you'll stay alive but wish you hadn't," Christian prodded. "Please do as you're told."

Orient walked stiffly past Lily, who remained in a blank pose of reverence, hands clasped at her waist, to the corner of the chamber.

"That's far enough, darling," Memphis said as he approached the sarcophagus.

"If he takes another step, I'll castrate him," Christian spat, coming closer. "He'll beg me to shoot him."

Memphis shrugged. "Forgive his fervor, but I'm afraid I share it. Get against the wall, Owen. Don't try to resist. You must be very tired."

He took a few numb steps to the fabric-draped wall, senses muzzled by shock and thoughts pounding like stallions over the bruised ridges of his brain.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked, concentration clutching for leverage. "You've got all the guns."

"Afraid? Not really, darling," Memphis said. "This is the most joyous moment in mankind's march toward order."

She turned to Christian.

"Is the girl fully conditioned?"

He nodded. "I gave Owen a demonstration earlier. He was quite impressed."

"Come here, priestess," she commanded.

A flicker of confusion shaded Lily's features, then was swallowed by the serene smile, as she hurried across the room.

Memphis gave her the automatics. "If Owen moves, shoot him. Do you understand?"

Lily turned, the pistols hovering in front of her body.

"Careful, Owen," Memphis warned, stroking Lily's hair. "She takes her orders quite literally."

She lifted her eyes to Orient's face.

"Today our potential will be shown to the world. Even now armies are positioned against the enemy, waiting for the moment of our first demonstration. When that ray of sun" -- Memphis took her hand from Lily's head and pointed to the floor -- "anoints the crystal skull of Schamballah, light-years of energy will be unleashed. Guided by the will of the trinity. At the very moment of your death, the one-eyed military poseur who leads the diseased race of Israel will also expire. A heart attack, they'll assume at first. And then see that every bit of glass in his closely guarded headquarters is smashed."

She stepped back, watching his face.

"Think, my darling," she whispered, flame-brightened eyes widening until her expression reflected the devout zeal glazing Lily's features. "At that moment modern warfare will become obsolete, along with its weapons. We'll be able to direct the energy of the skull against any man or nation who opposes us. Without glass, the electronic systems of human science will break down. Without leaders, the mongrel mobs will panic. Our Odessa network of key SS officers will first organize the Middle Eastern factions and eliminate the criminal Jewish state. The Fourth Reich will be born, bringing with it a glorious era in man's quest to order the world."

Memphis dropped her hands to the black cloth covering the sarcophagus.

"That era will be orchestrated by the most magnificent political mind ever developed by your species. A mind that will never die." She pulled back the velvet sheet.

"Father!" Christian called out, voice cracking.

Orient looked down at the puckered, age-blackened corpse inside the sarcophagus. Except for its discolored skin, the naked body was perfectly preserved. Both hair and moustache were very long, having continued growing after death, but as he stared at the pointed, death-flaked features, recognition froze his understanding.

"Father... your son is here..." Christian sobbed.

"He's been safe all these years in the holy temple of Agarthi," Memphis said in hushed tones. "After the war, he was taken here to await his reawakening."

She looked up. "I wanted Christian to see his father now. So that shock wouldn't disturb his purpose during the rite. I trust you've recovered, young god?"

When Christian answered, his flawless features were composed and his voice was steady. "I've recovered, sir."

"I understand. It's an emotional moment for me as well, this joyous reunion with my old friend. When the sun is at the solstice, our true Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, will again enlighten humanity." Violet eyes radiant, and pink lips parted by adoration, Memphis turned to him. "His wisdom will direct the trinity, and the strength of his son will brand the broken cross into the skin of the universe."

Icy fear sliced across Orient's instincts, releasing the tension reining his body. As his arms dropped, he saw the pistols in Lily's hands come forward. Fingers digging into the scarf wrapped around his palm, he waited for the shot.

"No, Lily," Memphis ordered curtly. Her voice softened as she came toward him. "Owen won't try to hurt me. He's very tired. Isn't that true, my love? I'm sure you haven't slept more than thirty hours this week. Soon you'll rest."

The husky tones massaged Orient's exhaustion like oiled fingers. Unable to elude the soft sounds, he drew his senses inward, anchoring his concentration to the silk fabric around his hand. He kept the link with the cloth open as the warm, soothing darkness coiled around his vision.

Memphis was very close, but all he could see were pinpoints of violet flame inside an ivory haze.

"Your mind can't keep awake much longer," she crooned. "Let it rest."

He braced his will against the liquid tones, fighting to keep his body upright. Awareness gripping the soiled cloth wrapped around his palm, he reached out for Lily's presence. His dowsing senses found nothing.

"Come with me, Owen," Memphis was saying.

He walked toward her, unable to focus on her blurred features.

"Take my gun, Lily," Christian snapped. "Put all the weapons inside the circle. Then prepare the brand."

As Orient struggled against the luxurious weariness hooding his perceptions, he saw Lily, far across the room, kneeling behind the blazing urn.

Memphis came between them.

"Lie down, my love," she murmured.

The murkiness covered his vision, and he sank down to the linen-covered mat. The orbit of his concentration was a bobbing raft in the oily darkness, foundering for Lily. Rough strands of rope tightened around his wrists, and he opened his eyes.

Memphis was bending over him, lavender-scented hair brushing his skin. He blinked away from her face, trying to break the feathery bands around his reflexes.

"Too... late..." he grunted. "Henry's dead. You need another man... for the trinity."

Memphis adjusted the ropes around his ankles.

"You're the one who's too late, Owen."

Christian moved closer to her, bleached eyes narrowed with loathing.

"You're such a fool, Orient, for while you've been doggedly tracking us, the supreme force of the trinity has been at your side. Von Hausoff, the priest who initiated my father into the secrets of Thule."

"It was a simple thing, really." Memphis smiled. "Long before modern medical discoveries, the experiments of the Annenerbe and the surgical skill of the brilliant Dr. Hirt enabled me to change my sex. My own knowledge of tantrism preserved my beauty while we prepared for this solar cycle. But the change was only a protective cosmetic, my love. The three most important men in the Fourth Reich are in this chamber."

"Almost time," Christian said impatiently. "I'll get the book."

Memphis began unbuttoning Orient's shirt. "Close your eyes and rest, darling. You must be exhausted. I was so afraid those soldiers would kill you in Luxor. Since the moment I cast your chart, I've been doing my best to protect you. That's why I prevented Christian from running you over that night. I'd discovered that your sun signs coincide, making you the perfect sacrifice for his transcendence. You've been chosen by destiny... don't resist... rest now...."

Orient's senses flailed to remain afloat as the fleecy tones muffled his will. He forced air into his diaphragm and lifted against the honey-thick weariness coating his eyelids.

The first thing he saw was the light, gleaming like a golden coin on the dark stone floor. It had reached the base of the black dome, where Memphis and Christian were crouched.

Far across the chamber, the coppery sheen of Lily's hair flared bright when she thrust a metal bar into the hot, orange coals. Then the brazen flames dimmed, and a pallid illumination grayed the shadows.

Memphis had removed the black velvet cover from the skull.

The crystal perfection of its smooth, hollow sockets absorbed all of the light in the chamber, flooding the flawlessly clear dome with a pulsing radiance.

The intense glow filled Christian's eyes with molten silver as he knelt before the shimmering brilliance, holding a book and trowel in his outstretched hands. Memphis knelt beside him.

"I offer this rite to thee, Agarthi, inviolable citadel of Thule," Christian called out. "In the names of Gog and Magog, who are above all spirits."

Orient was unable to pull his awareness away from the rainbow light pouring into the prismatic sockets. Concentration sagging under the suffocating fatigue, he gripped the silken fabric and cast his senses into the radiance, hoping to strike a link to Lily.

"I invoke the powerful name Huitzil to protect our understanding..."

"Lily, for God's sake, don't!"

The weak cry stumbled across the regular rise and fall of the prayer, and cut off. Orient looked back to the entrance and saw Oliver, face red with effort, trying to push himself erect. He fell forward and lay still.

"Kill him," Christian hissed, voice trembling.

"There's no time," Memphis soothed. "You shouldn't have stopped. Begin again. I'll attend to everything else. Trust me, young god."

Orient slowly realized that the oppressive drowsiness was gone. The interruption had diverted their attention, lifting the crushing dominance from his will. Fingers pressed against the soiled cloth around his palm, he expanded his orbit of awareness. A dull implosion at the base of his brain propelled his senses when they found Lily's seething presence.

"... I invoke the powerful name Huitzil to protect our undertaking..." Christian repeated.

Orient clung to the edge of Lily's vibrations, trying to pierce the chaos. Holding tight to the silk scarf, he compressed his concentration and projected it against her resistance.

"... I further call on the holy and terrible name Bon to aid me today, and the names of the most righteous Slyt and Hylpt, the true beginning and end..." Christian droned, voice rising.

The words boomed into his consciousness as if dropped from a very great height. Orient reached for something familiar to shield his frail balance from their momentum and remembered the formula of fertility he'd translated from Imhotep's texts.

The patch of light was at the edge of the ebony base, moments from the skull, whose brilliance had increased to a metallic incandescence, as if being filled with white-hot mercury.

"By Garuda and Chac, Ornias and Tephros..." Christian was chanting, bloodless skin blazing with illumination.

Static energy began feeding the still, sullen air.

"I call on the Ba of Imhotep, master of the right-hand way, to guide me," Orient prayed silently, stuffing his consciousness with the formula to prevent penetration by the rite.

"I call on Khnum, lord of the holy cycle of conception and birth," he continued, entire being centered on Lily. "Let the sacred limbs of Ptah embrace the force of divine union. Let Uzat and Turn come forth and beseech the supreme entity Ea to fill the north with his majesty."

Christian lifted the book. Stifling heat devoured the air, and a thick green aura bloomed like a fluorescent tree over the crystal dome.

"... I command thee to come forth by the names contained in the letters V, C, and X, and the number one-zero-one..." he intoned, voice becoming louder, more assured.

Orient's compressed senses drilled through the turbulent residue covering Lily's presence. Another implosion screwed his concentration tight, and he dug deeper, pouring the ancient words of the formula into the contact.

"... Let Maat intervene with Re the source..." The contact widened, and his awareness touched hers.

"I, Christian Orgaz, New Man of the Fourth Reich and high priest of the Broken Cross, order the royal presence of the Marquis Gamygyn, messenger to the regions of the dead..."

The white-draped interior was tinted with leafy shadows as the skull's green halo expanded.

The regular monotone of Christian's chanting paused.

Orient embraced Lily's awareness as he saw Memphis turn, face like smooth jade in the radiance.

"Lily," she called softly, "bring the brand."

Lily hesitated, then bent over the urn, skin flushed by the low flames. Christian took the trowel in his hand.

"I bind thee to me by the powerful names Gali, Engandanum..." his voice stammered, then stopped.

"I bind thee to me by the powerful names Gali, Enga, and Habdanum," he corrected, picking up his cadence.

A familiar rush cooled Orient's fevered senses as the prayer faltered, and he understood that all of Christian's resources were being drained by the rite. Memphis was standing, face beaded with emerald glints of perspiration.

The smoldering glow of the brand obscured Lily's features when she came across the floor, metal bar held in front of her.

Orient closed his eyes, senses swarming over her presence, using the prayer to cement their merging consciousness.

"Ba of Imhotep, witness my marriage to Maat. My body will be her seed, and my existence consumed in its budding..."

"Kill him, Lily," Memphis commanded. "Now."

A slap of fear opened his eyes.

Lily was a few steps away, swinging the heavy metal bar back and forth, its hot tip tracing red arcs in the air.

Almost on his feet, Christian tossed the trowel aside, his hand a blur as it snatched at the bar.

Lily shifted and thrust forward.

Memphis started toward them and stopped, outstretched arms suspended by shock.

Orient heard a crisp sizzle, and when Lily moved away, saw the bubbling pink sear splitting Christian's gaping mouth.

Lily lifted the bar above her head, and the suffocating stillness crumbled. Memphis reached out, clawing for Lily's hair. Christian clutched at his face, fell back on his knees, and screamed. His agonized bellow swallowed the noise when Lily dropped her arms and shattered the skull.

A quick electric shiver jolted Orient's senses, fragmenting perception. Memphis was running toward the urn, Lily just behind. As Memphis reached the pistols behind the urn, Lily stabbed with the metal bar. Screeching, Memphis pitched forward, hands frantically sweeping the floor for the weapons. Lily pushed against the urn, tipping its broiling weight on the sprawled body. Memphis uttered a hoarse, unbelieving yowl when the urn fell, spilling its fiery contents.

The stench of burning flesh and hot smoke choked off Orient's breath, and bursts of white light spotted his vision. Scattered shards of crystal were flashing against the stone like exploding diamonds. The smashed remnants of the skull shot tiny jets of scorching heat across the chamber, igniting everything they touched.

Ripped by hungry blades of fire, the white draperies above Memphis fell, spreading their spark-showered folds over the pinned form.

Orient strained against the ropes binding his wrists as a cluster of flames wriggled over the edge of the straw mat like red snakes. Lily staggered through the airless haze and pulled him away, hands beating at his smoldering clothes. He bent and pressed the strands against the raging brightness of a nearby glass splinter. When they parted, his wrists were blistered raw.

"Father..."

Intent on freeing his ankles, Orient glimpsed Christian lurching across the heat-jeweled floor, shredded lips exposing a gleaming knob of bone beneath his broken teeth. A wall blossomed with fire and collapsed, covering his shoulders with blazing orange petals. Yowling madly, Christian went down, arms flailing for his father's body. Yellow stalks of flame shot up inside the sarcophagus, and the parched, blackened corpse lifted slowly from its seething bed, limbs twisting like a paper match as they disintegrated.

Orient dodged and pulled Lily back to the entrance as another burning drapery ballooned overhead, stinging skin and hair with sparks. Gasping for breath, they bent over Oliver's limp body.

The bits of crystal across the floor began erupting with vision-searing intensity, squeezing Orient's eyes shut. Blasts of heat evaporated the sweat on his skin and scoured his arid lungs. He set his feet and helped pull Oliver's groaning bulk out of the chamber.

The flaring illumination followed them to the sweltering outer chamber. Consciousness dimming from lack of air, Orient helped Lily drag the unresisting form down the ramp to the steaming tunnel below the earth.

Trembling strobes of brightness suddenly shook the smoke-filled passage, and something crashed soundlessly against the base of Orient's brain, blotting out all pain.

He heard a jerky wailing in the distance and lifted his head. Hot, dusty darkness stung his eyes.

He fumbled through his pockets, found a box of matches, and struck a light. The passage was filled with powdery clouds of grit that clogged his nostrils and coated his throat. He extended the burning match. Lily was pressed against a wall, weeping hysterically. Oliver was lying a short distance away, hands pressed to his side.

Orient crawled to Lily and tore a few strips of cloth from her robe. Twisting one of the strips into a crude torch, he used the others to bandage Oliver's wound. The Englishman's eyes fluttered, and his cracked lips parted.

"T-tell... Ke..."

Orient bent closer. "Tell me what?"

"... Keith... British... embass..." Fish's head fell back.

After binding the wound, Orient took another strip of cloth for light and started out through the dust-fogged passage, leaving Lily huddled in the darkness behind him.

Chapter 28

Orient would have preferred to leave Cairo immediately, but was out of money.

Physically and emotionally bankrupt as well, he spent the next two days in his hotel room, leaving his bed only to perform various yoga exercises designed to ease his wrenched back muscles. He stayed in meditation for long hours, rebuilding his crumbled emotions, as well as his body. On the second day he felt strong enough to perform an important rite.

First he drew a talisman on a clean sheet of white paper. He carefully inscribed a large circle, with a smaller circle within. He then set a perfect square inside the smaller circle, and after putting the word Ihvh along each straight side, wrote the invocation "Diripsiti vincuia mea; tibi sacrificabo hostiam iaudis, et nomen invocabo" inside the outer ring of the talismanic design.

When it was finished, he folded the paper and placed it in an ashtray. Mentally focusing on the design he'd drawn, Orient murmured certain prayers calling for the safe passage of the souls of the dead. At the end of the invocation, he struck a match and touched the flame to the folded paper in the ashtray. As the talisman was consumed by flame he repeated the words he'd written: "I will offer to thee the sacrifice of thanksgiving, and will call upon the name of the Lord."

Orient knew that he'd have to perform the rite every week for the next three months to ensure that the imprisoned spirits of Arnold, Jojo, and the other sacrificial victims would be released and allowed to follow their intended paths of existence. As he returned to bed, Orient was thankful that he was able to perform the task.

On the morning of the third day he was awakened by a phone call. Though uncertain he could cope effectively with bureaucratic curiosity, he understood his situation was still precarious. Until money arrived from New York, he was stranded in a war zone, and every passing day increased the certainty of investigation by the local authorities.

Knowing his reactions would have to be reasonably clear that day, he went into twenty minutes of deep meditation before taking a cold shower. He walked the short distance to the Nile Hilton for a leisurely if not lavish breakfast, and from there took a cab to the British embassy.

Assistant Consul Michael Keith greeted him with a brisk handshake, left hand nervously patting the wing of lank blond hair at the side of his head.

"Good to see you, doctor. Hope you're feeling up to par these days."

Despite Keith's hearty tone, Orient's wariness escalated. "Almost normal. How's your patient doing?"

Keith leaned back, regarding him over joined hands. "He'll tell you himself. But I wanted to discuss some other matters. Unofficially, of course."

"Other matters?"

"Such as what the devil you people were really doing in that underground tunnel."

"We were looking for an inner chamber to the Saqqara pyramid. It's the oldest struc -- "

Keith slammed his palms flat on the desk. "Let's not waste time, doctor. You found Von Hausoff, didn't you?"

"Who?"

The assistant consul's hawk-featured face compressed with annoyance.

"Give it up, man. Oliver's told us what happened. We know all about the Zionist group that sent him here to kidnap a certain ex-Nazi called Von Hausoff. He told us everything."

Orient shrugged. "Then you know everything."

"He also told us your part in the whole business."

"I'm interested only in the archaeology business."

The white-suited consul pounced triumphantly. "Doesn't seem to pay very well, does it? We've run a check on your status here, doctor. Where's the woman you're traveling with?"

Orient calmed the anxious pangs blocking his thoughts, and smiled. "We had a quarrel. When I got back to the hotel, they told me she'd checked out."

"We knew that. And we know she was supporting you. Is that why you agreed to work with Fish?"

"We met in New York. We were trying to find an inner chamber to the pyramid," Orient repeated, hoping Oliver had told a similar story.

Keith stood up and leaned across his desk. "I can tell you what really happened, doctor. You see, our government has been giving Fish and his group some assistance. Unofficially, of course. There are some questions we'd like this Nazi officer to answer. But Oliver decided to cross us and kill Von Hausoff. You were without funds and agreed to help him."

Part of the tension broke, but Orient instinctively remained wary. "If you don't believe me, why not go back into the passage where you picked up Oliver and look around?"

Keith's frown deepened. "We did. It was like an oven down there. Did you have thermal explosives with you?"

He shook his head. "We didn't have anything. That's why we needed your help after Oliver shot himself."

"Difficult to believe an old hand like Fish could make a mistake like that," Keith mused, eyes narrowed. "What happened to the gun?"

"Probably back in the chamber we found. Didn't you go back there?"

"There was no chamber." Keith jammed his hands into his pockets. "The passage was blocked, and whatever explosive you used made it too uncomfortable to make a thorough search. The Egyptians have taken over the site now. The whole affair's made it impossible to carry out any diplomatic dialogue. We do want to protect you people, but we can't do it without your help."

Orient lit a cigarette. "I told you what happened two days ago. Oliver wanted to explore a new passage leading to the Saqqara pyramid that he'd discovered. We found a chamber, and while there, Oliver accidentally shot himself. Perhaps the vibrations from the gunshot caused the chamber to crumble."

Keith sighed and glanced at his watch.

"The Egyptians are also accusing us of trying to despoil their national treasures," he muttered unhappily. "Fish never bothered to get an exploration permit, among other things."

His voice lowered.

"Look. We just want to know what happened to Von Hausoff. After all, we did pull you people out of an awfully sticky situation."

Orient spread his hands. "Seems to me you pulled two of your own people out of an awfully sticky situation. If you want to know anything else, you'll have to take it up with them. Why not ask Lily what happened?"

Keith grimaced slightly.

"Lady Sativa's been under a great deal of strain. Of course, her title affords her our full protection. We'll also give Oliver our protection. As long as he cooperates." He lifted one hand and jabbed the air with his index finger. "But you don't enjoy that privilege, doctor. And if we find any evidence that you're lying, we'll turn you over to the military police. You won't like the Cairo jail, and they won't like you."

Orient nodded. "Sorry you feel that way. But I'd still like to thank you for your help the other day. Unofficially, of course."

The assistant consul came around the desk and went to the door. "Very well. If that's all you have to tell me. Come this way, please."

Certain he'd given the wrong answers and was under arrest, Orient followed Keith up a marble stairway to a room on the third floor.

When he entered, he saw Oliver propped up by two pillows in a brass bed, smoking a cigar. The white-haired Englishman rested the cigar on a Dunhill ashtray next to shim and solemnly extended a profusely jeweled hand.

"Thanks, old dear," he wheezed, grasping Orient's fingers. "Thought it was all up, but you kept your head. Doctors here tell me your bandages saved me from bleeding away. God bless you."

Keith coughed discreetly. "I assume you two have a lot to discuss. I'll be in my office."

"How's the wound?" Orient asked solicitously.

"Fair, m'boy," Oliver rumbled weakly, eyes on the door. As soon as the assistant consul departed, he pointed to a table below an open window.

"Help yourself to a drink. And put some music on the box while you're over there."

Orient snapped a cassette into the Sony recorder and poured a glass of mineral water. When he turned, he was surprised to see Oliver getting out of bed and into a paisley silk robe.

Fish looked up.

"Now then," he boomed, "how much did you tell them?"

Orient took a sip of water.

"Room may be bugged."

"Of course it is. That's why I asked you to put on some music. Drowns out their equipment. Did you say anything about Von Hausoff?" He went over what he had told Keith.

"Very good." Fish chuckled. "Michael's a stickler, but he won't give us much trouble without evidence. I gave him the same story about shooting myself while looking for a secret chamber."

"What about Lily?"

"I managed to get out of here last night and find her room. It's just downstairs. She hadn't said a word. Can't seem to remember much of what happened. I briefed her on what to say."

"You recovered very quickly from that bullet."

Fish waved his cigar.

"Nothing serious. Bullet passed right through, missing the vitals. Not even a souvenir for my old age. Embarrassing, really. Having to say I shot myself, I mean." He looked at Orient, fingers twirling the end of his moustache. "You gave Keith the right story, but you're going to have to get out of the country right away."

"More trouble?"

Fish nodded. "Christian's friend. When I got to him that night in Luxor and started asking questions, he bit down on a vial of poison concealed in his tooth. After you left, I hid the body, but eventually he'll turn up. At that point we're all in very deep trouble, old dear."

"I'm waiting for some fresh money."

Fish beamed and poured some brandy into a tumbler. "Unfortunately, so am I. In a month or so, however, you'll be receiving quite a large sum. Over fifteen thousand British pounds. Part of the reward for finding Von Hausoff."

Anger and depression knotted the muscles in Orient's neck and jaw. "Keep it," he grunted.

The smile faded.

"I know you must think I'm a bastard, Owen. But I couldn't risk trusting you. Von Hausoff exterminated my entire family during the war. I tracked him for thirty years and never came close. Until the murders began. I admit I was quite willing to use anyone or anything to get him. I'm not particularly proud of what I had to do. But as soon as I contact the people I represent, they'll make it up to you."

Orient didn't answer.

Oliver paused to turn the cassette over.

"Look here," he grumbled uncomfortably, "we may have had different motives and methods, but we accomplished what had to be done."

He peered across the room. "Didn't we?"

As Orient walked over to the table, he finally understood the source of Oliver's discomfort.

"If you mean, is Von Hausoff really dead, the answer is yes. He and Christian were in the chamber when it collapsed." He splashed some brandy into his glass.

Fish stared out the open window at the gardens below. "What did he look like?"

"Tall, black hair, wearing a black robe." Orient drained the brandy. "Why not forget it?"

"Hard to forget thirty years." Oliver sighed. "Getting Von Hausoff meant more than my life. In all that time I never saw his face. Not even a photograph. It became a sort of obsession. I suppose I should be grateful he's dead. But still..."

"You recovered consciousness in there," Orient reminded. "Diverted their attention. Didn't you see him?"

Fish went back for more brandy. "I was in a delirium after getting shot. Who did it, anyway, Christian?"

He shook his head. "Von Hausoff. Didn't Lily tell you what happened?"

"She can't recall anything except smashing the skull. Probably just as well. Going to see her? She's been asking for you."

"I don't know."

"It was right after you two had that row that I introduced her to Christian," Fish went on, moustache drooping mournfully. "I guess I encouraged her. As I said, I was willing to use anyone to find Von Hausoff. I knew Christian was involved with the trinity and the murders. I used her to get closer to him."

He leaned forward, squinting with interest.

"How did you manage to break Christian's influence on her, old dear, telepathy?"

He looked away.

"Something like that. What about Keith? How much trouble will he give us?"

Oliver smiled conspiratorially and lowered his voice. "None at all. Unless he finds out that Von Hausoff is really dead. Or the other body. At that point his diplomatic interest ceases and he throws us to the wolves. That should be very soon. My people are making arrangements to move me to London this week. This truce could collapse any second."

"Does Keith know anything about the trinity?"

Fish relit his cigar. "Only a few members of the organization I represent know of its existence. They know nothing of its occult roots."

Orient placed his glass on the table. "That reminds me. The university library is going to give you some heat about that Imhotep scroll you stole. I identified you."

"Already detailed it to Keith for return," Fish said airily. "Told him that's how I found the bloody passage in the first place. Remember that if he asks."

The grinding pain in Orient's back increased his depression. He suddenly wanted to leave the cheerful, sun-brightened room and return to the timeless, thoughtless isolation of his bed.

Oliver seemed to understand his anxiety.

"Don't worry. I'm doing my best to keep Michael off your back," he rumbled gently. "He's got no real authority over us, and won't make noises unless there's cause."

His red-rimmed eyes searched Orient's face.

"Lily's just underneath. Want me to show you where?"

He forced a smile. "I think I can find it."

But when Orient walked down the flight of stairs, he found himself unable to cross the hall to her room. He stood motionless on the landing, thoughts racing through a maze of emotion.

"Owen?"

He looked up and saw her hurrying toward him.

"I was so afraid you'd go down those stairs," Lily murmured, breath warm against his ear. "I've been waiting at the door."

"I... wanted to... tell you..." he said awkwardly.

"Tell me what, dearest?" she whispered.

"Thanks."

She eased back. "Is that all?"

"I'm not sure."

She reached up and caressed his cheek. "It was Memphis that... Oliver wanted, wasn't it?"

He looked away, unable to answer.

"There are certain things I remember," she explained hesitantly. "I didn't want you to be hurt anymore. So I told Oliver my memory was a blank. My way of thanking you, actually. For freeing me."

Orient took her hands. Without makeup, and her long hair pulled back into a braid, she looked very young and vulnerable. He wanted to reassure her, but couldn't.

"You should leave Cairo right away," he told her instead. "It's still not safe."

"What about you?"

"I'll go as soon as possible."

"Take me with you?"

He let her fingers slip out of his hands.

Her clear amber eyes challenged his. "Can't forgive me?"

He smiled. "Nothing to forgive, is there? It's not you. Problem is me."

She held his face between her fingertips.

"Everything gone?"

"Some things." He leaned closer and kissed her. "Just a matter of time."

"I'll wait, darling," she whispered, clinging to him. "But promise me you'll think about us."

He held her tight, inhaling the spicy fragrance of her smooth skin.

"I haven't thought about anything else," he said softly.

When he returned to the hotel, Orient found that the money had arrived.

He took the notice to the twenty-four-hour bank inside Shepheard's and exchanged ten examples of his signature for a stack of traveler's checks. Then he went to his room and phoned the desk. There was a flight to Rome in the morning, and another to London in the afternoon.

Orient opened his silver case and lit a hand-wrapped cigarette. Before it was half-finished he called back and booked two seats to London.

-- -----------------

Content

Frank Lauria
Baron Orgaz

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28